Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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)

Chapter Text

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 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…"

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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 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."

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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 were 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.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

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."

Chapter Text

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. "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, she 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."

Chapter Text

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 to FIND THE JEDI as it had been instructed.

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."

Chapter Text

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…

Chapter Text

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."

Chapter Text

Mara was trying not to be irritated about not being aboard her own ship. It wasn't easy—she was comfortable aboard Tempered Mettle, it was her space and her sanctuary. But she knew all-too-well that she was not as low-profile as she used to be, which meant that traveling aboard her own ship into potentially hostile territory was increasingly risky. Besides which, Luke and Mara's guide to Nar Shaddaa was slated to be the very-pregnant Mirax Terrik, and catering to Mirax's comfort was more important than catering to Mara's own.

She would just have to bear it.

The hangar that housed Pulsar Skate was a bustle of activity. Hover dollies loaded with cargo were pushed by put-upon industrial lifter droids, each making their typical sounds of grumbling discontent as they loaded the heavy packages in Skate's main cargo hold. Mara shifted another pallet of crates; next to her, Mirax's copilot Liat looked almost comically small behind a heavily loaded dolly, a clan of his Sullustan relatives chittering excitedly around him. Mara only knew a bit of Sullustan, enough to pick up a word here or there and determine that they really wanted to know where Liat was going, and that the Sullustan was doing an admirable job of maintaining operational security.

Behind her, the whir of another dolly drew her attention. Mirax and Luke managed it together, pushing it into the neat space that had been allotted for the package. Well into her second trimester, Mirax was mostly 'supervising' the loading, which mostly meant telling Liat, Luke, Mara and the loader droids where she wanted things stacked—and why they were all doing it wrong, down to the micrometer.

"What's in the boxes?" asked Mara, nudging the box nearest her with her toe.

"Why, contraband of course." Mirax grinned. "It's a good thing I have a pair of Jedi to vouch for me on departure, otherwise we might have quite a bit of trouble with customs."

Luke and Mara shared a look, unsure if she was joking or not. Mara's expression remained serious; Luke's was cheerfully jovial. "I doubt even my reputation is enough to prevent a ship belonging to the 'Smugglers' Alliance' from being subjected to a rigorous inspection," he teased. "Although it wouldn't surprise me if Karrde had arrangements with every customs office between here and Tatooine."

"Oh, farther than Tatooine!" Mirax jested. "I have it on good authority that he and Kyp have been as far out as Bakura just to bribe lowly customs agents."

Luke laughed and Mara had to smile. It was probably true in spirit, if not in fact, and Luke's clear good-humor—and lack of any judgment—sent an odd warmth through her. As Emperor's Hand she hadn't thought much of smugglers. They were criminals, after all, ones who broke Imperial law and stole revenues that properly belonged to the Empire at a minimum. Her opinions had gradually shifted after she found herself on the fringes of the galaxy and learned just what those imposed duties actually meant for the people who needed simple goods. But she'd long assumed that Luke—virtuous, farmboy-proper Luke—would bristle at the casual criminality of something like smuggling. In hindsight that had been silly of her—Luke was Han Solo's brother-in-law, after all, and the two of them got along very well—but still, seeing Jedi Knight Luke Skywalker playfully skirting the New Republic's laws still surprised her. And makes your heart skip, Mara, she admitted, as she watched Luke and Mirax continue their casual banter.

He had no business being so alarmingly attractive.

Luke caught her eye and winked at her. She almost bumped into Liat with her dolly and was roundly upbraided by the crowd of chittering Sullustan spectators.

* * *

"I'm sorry we have to leave while you're still waiting to hear from Corran," Luke apologized to Mirax as she and Liat carefully guided Pulsar Skate up through the crowd of traffic surrounding Coruscant, heading for open space and the hyperlane that would take them out towards Hutt space.

Mirax frowned. It was a small frown, almost unnoticeable, but Luke definitely noticed it—and the slight dimming of Mirax's spirits. "Whatever is going on with our homeworld," she said after a moment, "Corran felt a pull towards home and his grandfather certainly thought he needed to be there for something important." She shrugged. "I did tell him, though, that if he isn't back in time for our son to be born, I am going to name him after my father and he won't be allowed to object."

That made Luke and Mara both laugh, and Liat said something pointed in response.

"Hey!" Mirax objected, glaring at her copilot. "Only I'm allowed to insult Corran like that! I don't even let Booster say so much as a word about him in private!" Liat snickered, and Mirax shook her head, mock-put-upon. "See what I have to put up with?" she asked with a theatrical sigh.

"I'm sure he's alright," Luke said reassuringly. "He's grown stronger in the Force, especially after his and Kam's experiences with Tavira and the Jensaarai."

"Oh, I know," Mirax said dryly. "I love my husband, but he's not the type to let anyone forget something like that, and he had to do something to prevent my father from getting all the glory for the destruction of Invidious." She glanced at Luke. "Actually, I was more disappointed that Wedge couldn't come to see us off. I was expecting he would—it's not often he has the chance to and he almost never misses it when he does."

That had disappointed Luke, too. He and Wedge didn't often spend a long time in one place together, but the months Lusankya had spent in its repair dock in orbit of Coruscant had allowed them to rectify that for a time. He'd even managed to cajole Mara into a double date with Iella and Wedge with expensive tickets to the Coruscant Opera; that had been a wonderful evening (something even Mara had admitted when they'd arrived home afterwards). "I know he had intended to," Luke said. "But something came up, I'm not sure what, he couldn't tell me."

"Well, I hope it's nothing bad," Mirax said. "Hold on, time for our first hyperspace jump, then we'll make the best time we can to Nar Shaddaa."

* * *

Dinner aboard the Pulsar Skate was a comfortable affair. Liat sat in an elevated chair, one that put him on even height with his human companions, and was an animated conversationalist. The Sullustan had been particularly interested in the Jedi Order and taken the opportunity presented to interrogate Luke and Mara about their plans for the future. To Luke's surprise, Liat was also highly knowledgeable about the Jedi Order of old—a consequence, no doubt, of the fact he and Mirax had long made their living as a broker for Jedi artifacts. The conversation had quickly turned to Luke's plan to bring back the Antarian Rangers, an idea with which Mirax was already familiar, but was new to Liat.

The Sullustan considered the idea for a long time, and then battered Luke with a series of rapid-fire questions.

Luke laughed. "No, they won't have to be Force-sensitive. If it was that easy to find Force-sensitives, maybe we could train Jedi quickly enough that it wouldn't be so important to bring the Rangers back. Yes, the Rangers will have an important role in decision-making, not just follow orders. I'm not sure how they'll be funded yet, exactly, but the Jedi have some… wealthy donors willing to back the project." It was better not to get into the specifics, he thought, but Liat seemed satisfied with that answer.

The Sullustan's next series of questions came slower and were harder to answer. "I strongly believe," Luke began his answer just as slowly, letting himself work through the words before he vocalized them, "that the Force can work through all of us. It's true, the Jedi of old were much greater in number. That's going to be true… probably for my lifetime, if not much longer. Training a Jedi is not a long process, necessarily, but it is a difficult one and one that must be done meticulously and with care. I do not want to rush the process of training Jedi and make mistakes, as my own Masters did. And yet, there is great pressure to restore a Jedi presence." He pressed his lips together, thinking hard as he went on to the second part of Liat's question. "And I don't think it is necessary to be a Force-user to have the wisdom and judgment required to do the job. The Force grants Jedi power and wisdom, of course, but it works through all of us, whether we are Force sensitives or not. Everyone is part of the Force." He hesitated, then continued once more, not quite sure if this was something he should speak, but doing so nonetheless. "And in my experience, there are times the Dark Side can cloud a Jedi's judgment. If we cannot always have Jedi working together because we are too few, we should always have trusted advisors and companions, people to consult with and whose wisdom we trust."

"I mean, I love my husband, but he's definitely at his best when he's working with Wedge and Tycho," Mirax said with a grin.

That made Liat chitter, and Luke laughed along with him. "I think we all are at our best when working with Wedge and Tycho," he said with a smile. Then he glanced over his shoulder, at the corridor down which Mara had recently departed. "Or Mara."

"I am sure Corran would be glad for that caveat," Mirax chuckled.

"Does that answer your questions, Liat?" Luke asked.

Luke followed the Sullustan's response reasonably well, though there were times he still struggled with the language. "Liat and I spent years studying the Jedi of old," Mirax added, "even before I married the grandson of one. We're far from experts of course, but we know about as much as any non-Jedi can. That's one of the reasons I've been able to provide those Solonese airwood practice swords you've made so much use of," she added.

"Kam in particular appreciates them," Luke said with a smile and a nod. "Also, we're still working on preparing to build more lightsabers with our apprentices. We have plenty of crystals from the museum on Coruscant, but we could use a supply of power cells."

"I'm sure I can make that happen."

"Though I do have another question," Luke said. "Back on Coruscant, you implied that you had a contact on Nar Shaddaa, someone who would be helpful in tracking down Jedi artifacts on that world. Mara's off sweeping the ship for listening and tracking devices again, but she's already done it twice. I know we're both very curious who your mysterious contact is."

Mirax hummed in response. Standing, she walked to the heating unit and removed a kettle, pouring hot water into a pair of mugs. Returning with the mugs, and a third mug for when Mara came back from her final security sweep, she slid one to Luke. "You may not like this," she warned.

That was a strange thing to say, Luke thought. "Why not?" he asked cautiously.

"Because you're a human from Tatooine, and I've never met a human from Tatooine who doesn't have a deep, visceral dislike of Hutts," she said.

He shouldn't be surprised, really, Luke knew. They were going to Nar Shaddaa, and if there was going to be someone with enough power and money (as well as interest) on Nar Shaddaa to be a major player in the Jedi antiquities trade, it would almost have to be a Hutt, or an agent of a Hutt. It was true, though, that Luke Skywalker did not like Hutts. That almost no one from Tatooine really liked Hutts. Even Hutt employees didn't like Hutts—they just paid better than almost every alternative. "Do you trust him?" he asked.

"Well enough. His name is Beldorion, and he's a major player in the Jedi antiquities trade. He and I have done business over the last few years, on and off. He's a somewhat mysterious figure for a Hutt, in that he doesn't seem to come from any of the major Hutt kajidics. He must have been exiled from one of them, but I've never seen any sign that he's on bad terms with them—he just doesn't belong to one."

Luke frowned. Hutt politics wasn't his expertise, but he was from Tatooine—he knew enough. "That is strange."

Mirax nodded. "But he's definitely among the more respectable Hutts. His lack of association with the clans means he has no pull in their politics, and isn't a party to any of their criminal or semi-legal enterprises. He's an art dealer, and about as respectable as Hutts come—I did my research when I started selling him antiquities. I don't typically sell to people I don't trust."

"And you feel safe meeting with him?"

"Well," Mirax said, her tone becoming spoiled, almost simpering. "My Daddy is Booster Terrik. He owns and operates one of the only Impstar Deuces in private hands, and most of the turbolaser emplacements—the ones he was allowed to keep—still work. If so much as a single negative feeling is felt towards me and his first grandchild, he's going to find out who felt it, destroy their businesses and homes, strap them across one of those turbolasers and blast them in half. And then he's going to get mean."

"I see your point."

"Seriously though, if I was even slightly concerned you wouldn't be making this trip without much more backup, and I wouldn't be coming at all." Mirax rested her hand on her belly. "I do, after all, have more than myself to think about."

The message insisted on urgency and brooked absolutely no room for delay, so Wedge was forced to very reluctantly abandon getting to say goodbye to Mirax and Luke in person. Instead, he flew a small shuttle, Atril beside him, on a hasty trip to the Senatorial Skyhook, where Senator Sena Midanyl was waiting.

Atril sat slack in her acceleration couch, reviewing a datapad. When he chanced a glance at the woman, her expression looked as pensive and annoyed as Wedge felt. "There's absolutely nothing useful here," she complained. "And I don't even know if that's because it's classified or if it's because no one knows anything."

"The fact that it's Sena making the call suggests it's about Corellia," Wedge pointed out with a shrug. "But other than that, I don't know anything more than you do."

"I hate this," she said. "My Mareschals have the best sensor suites in the fleet. I'm not used to flying blind."

"I know the feeling," Wedge replied. "It's the waiting to find out that I hate most."

"Reminds me of my TIE pilot days," Artil muttered.

Through the shuttle's observation window, Wedge watched as they closed towards Coruscant. There were numerous Home Fleet vessels clustered defensively above the Skyhook. Wedge could even see Home One there, surrounded by its typical cloud of escorts.

With all the haste, the shuttle's landing took only a few more minutes. The soft click of landing gear, then the shifting settle of the landing struts, communicated that it was safe to disembark, and Wedge powered down before he and Atril both released their security straps and headed for the ramp before it had finished lowering. Wedge jogged down, reaching the deck just as the ramp touched metal, Atril close behind him. Two troopers met them and hastily guided them towards the nearest conference room.

Wedge was surprised to find the room did not just contain Sena. Next to Senator Midanyl was Councilor Ackbar himself, and between them both was General Airen Cracken of New Republic Intelligence. "I take it that something serious has happened," Wedge said, drawing the attention of all three figures to him.

"And something we won't be able to keep quiet for long, though I don't think we would want to," Cracken replied with a nod.

"Wedge," Ackbar greeted him, lowering his large head and blinking his oversized, fishlike eyes in greeting. "Yes, something serious has indeed happened. It seems the depths of recent surprises are deeper even than an ocean trench." Ackbar gestured around the conference table, which had a platter with pastries and a large carafe of steaming caf with mugs waiting. "Sit and General Cracken and Senator Midanyl will brief us."

Wedge and Atril glanced at each other. Cracken and Midanyl would do the briefing? Wedge stole a look at Sena; his former attache looked back with a depth of seriousness that Wedge could remember seeing before their attacks on Chazwa and Carida. But there wasn't just seriousness there… to Wedge's surprise, there was an energetic light in Sena's eyes, an excitement he had not expected to see. "Of course," he said, feeling sudden anticipation swell.

Evidently, the excitement within Sena could not be restrained. "Corellia is free!" she exclaimed, and the grin she'd been hiding burst out.

Pure astonishment was Wedge's response. He'd spent the last four months planning the invasion of Corellia, what did she mean 'Corellia is free'? "What?" was all he could say.

Sena was nearly giddy, excitement that made the years drop away from her, replaced with sudden youthful vigor. "The New Order fleet that was guarding Corellia has changed sides," she said. "Most of it has. One of the Star Destroyers was destroyed by the other five and an armada of Corellian volunteers. The Imperial government in Coronet has been scattered and Diktat Gallamby is reportedly dead. I've just received a message from a new Corellian Ruling Council, which wants to take the first steps towards formally claiming my Senate seat to represent not just Corellia-in-Exile, but Corellia proper."

Words failed Wedge. Beside him, Atril boggled with surprise.

"How did this happen?" Wedge finally managed. "Can we confirm any of it?"

Cracken finally stepped in. "I think we can," he said. "Wraith Squadron has been on the ground on Corellia for almost a year, both hunting Fliry Vorru and working against the Diktat, and they're far from my only intelligence assets. The HoloNet is still blocked, but messages are starting to trickle in from neighboring systems. I've received three different confirmations that there's been a changeover in government on Corellia in the last two hours, and I expect more will arrive shortly." Cracken smiled, a look so unfamiliar on his typically serious face that Wedge found it disturbing. "As for how it happened, I'm sure it'll be some time before we can work out the exact details, but it appears the Imperial Fleet either mutinied or refused orders to suppress the protests. You'll find this in particular interesting, Wedge—the main rumor is the mutiny was precipitated by a military disaster on the Outer Rim."

Slowly, excitement started to wane as the General asserted control over the Corellian native. "The New Order attacked Poln Major and was repulsed by Pellaeon," Wedge guessed.

"And decisively," Cracken agreed. "I don't know how credible these rumors are, but I've seen reports that the New Order lost as many as twelve Imperial-class Star Destroyers in the attempt."

Atril's look of astonishment redoubled. Wedge merely whistled. "That would be a heavy blow," he said slowly. "And I could see how it might precipitate a mutiny elsewhere in the fleet." He looked at Ackbar. "Admiral, what now?"

The Mon Calamari offered an amused smile. "It's Councilor now, General. And I don't know. I know you were planning to begin your offensive as soon as tomorrow, but it would appear that is no longer necessary. I would suggest you wait another week or so and finish all the repairs you require rather than rushing out to return to the battlefield. We wanted Lusankya and Fifth Fleet out saving Corellia, but it seems the Corellians—in typical Corellian fashion—may have saved themselves instead."

They all glanced at Atril when she made a sound of discontent. When she realized their regard, she straightened, blushing. "Oh!"

"You have a concern, Commodore?" Sena asked pointedly.

"Oh… no, not really," Atril said, shaking her head. "This is all wonderful of course, I just… the New Order does not react to losing well—just look at their terrorist attack on Rendili after Rendili declared its independence. So if it was willing to kill thousands of Rendili dockworkers just to punish Rendili for its defiance, what is ISB going to do in response to this?"

"Nothing good," Sena admitted.

General Cracken sighed heavily, and shook his head. "It's true. Just like Rendili, I'm going to assume that the Empire will want to make Corellia pay for its 'treason'." He rubbed his nose, looking unhappy. "And I would be wary of sending our own fleets into the Corellian System to defend it. The people in charge of communication, and whoever is commanding the new Corellian defense fleet—not to mention Corellia's static defenses, which may still be controlled by Imperial loyalists—might respond aggressively to any uninvited display of force. While the Corellians do not want to be ruled by the Empire, there's a fairly substantial faction who also doesn't want to be ruled by the New Republic."

"We'll know one way or the other soon. I'm going to Corellia," Sena said.

"You're what?" Cracken practically jumped out of his chair and Ackbar looked equally ill-at-ease with the suggestion.

"I'm going right now, by myself, and I'm going to meet the new Corellian government and see who is in charge and what they want. I'll also present them with the terms under which I will be able and willing to represent them in the Senate."

"Are you certain it is a wise idea to sail these seas?" Ackbar said, his voice slow and thoughtful, without any of Sena's excited haste. "Perhaps it would be best to allow the surface to settle, so that the horizon before us is more clear."

Sena shook her head decisively. "No. Absolutely not. There is an opportunity here and now, and I will not be remembered as the woman who missed the opportunity to welcome Corellia into the New Republic. The worst thing that could happen is I get martyred."

"No," Cracken countered. "The worst thing that could happen is you end up in Imperial custody."

"One and the same," Sena replied dismissively. "I'm still as prepared for that eventuality as I was in the old days. Wedge, you need to get Fifth Fleet ready. If the Empire decides that it has to punish Corellia the way it punished Rendili, the costs could be enormous. The moment I have a basing agreement with the new Corellian government I want Fifth Fleet there to defend it."

"Yes ma'am."

"Good man. Now find me a pilot. They'd better be almost crazy enough to fly with the Rogues."

Didn't I just leave this party?

Han Solo felt acutely uncomfortable back in uniform, even if it was a set of rumpled Fleet Command fatigues and not the razor sharp creases of the imperial tunic and breeches he'd worn so long ago. He'd already removed the General's tabs. I don't need anyone getting confused, he thought wryly. So far no one had asked about it—but just hauling the uniform out from the forgotten depths of his closet had felt like trudging through a swamp. Or across Hoth. Or both at once.

At least it still fit.

Chewbacca had returned from Kashyyyk as suddenly as he had departed. With Han, Leia, and the twins' safety assured by a new cadre of Noghri bodyguards for the last few months, Chewbacca had felt the freedom to spend a truly extended period back home and had taken full advantage. But with Han's decision to rejoin the fleet, if only temporarily, Chewbacca had returned immediately. They had argued then, but ultimately Han had won and persuaded Chewie to stay on Coruscant and help look after the twins. With Han leaving they would need a father figure and there was no one Han would rather have in the role than Chewbacca—even if the fact that Han was going off into battle again while Chewie would be staying behind made the Wookiee miserable. He'd been miserable before, Han reminded himself. He'd get over it.

The massive fleet admiral's quarters about Lusankya were larger than Han could have imagined. His old quarters on Mon Remonda had been spacious but not the size of a large apartment, and Wedge's quarters made some large apartments look tiny. Around the table at the center of the briefing room was the rest of Wedge's staff: Captain Kre'fey, Lusanyka's commanding officer, and Commodore Tabanne, his aide.

"How long until Lusankya will be ready for deployment?" Wedge asked, looking over at Kre'fey.

"If you wanted to hurry us out, we could deploy today," Kre'fey growled. "But we'd have to deploy without our full logistics train. Daala's attacks have stretched us to the limit, and we're barely half-stocked on proton torpedoes."

"We're not going to be deploying today, or even this week," Wedge said. "It'll take Sena some time to smuggle herself into Corellia and no matter how amenable the new government is, I doubt she'll have any kind of formal agreement quickly."

"If ever," Atril teased. "You're an ornery, aggressive, confrontational bunch."

"Hey, I resent that," Han said, folding his arms across his chest, Chewbacca-style. "I also don't think Corellia's in any immediate danger. Even if the Empire wants to punish Corellia, they just don't have the ships to do it. Without Carida or Eriadu they can't even get to Corellia. The New Republic controls all the major routes through the Core, and even ISB wouldn't risk taking a whole battle fleet through the Deep Core."

"The Empire has proven adept at exploiting unknown or temporary hyperlanes," Atril warned him.

"And don't forget the rumors that Luke and Mara are following up on," Wedge added. There was a darkness to his expression that made Han vaguely nervous. Stress had deepened the lines in Wedge's face, and there was some fresh gray in his hair—even though Wedge was still a young man, much younger than Han himself. Han had no doubt that Wedge was capable of commanding Fifth Fleet, but he remembered the sleepless nights and endless responsibility when he had led a task force—all those months away from Leia, battling Zsinj from system to system, tearing his hair out to put the mad warlord down. Clearly, the responsibilities were taking a similar toll on the other Corellian. "You've all been briefed on the rumors about Silencer Station," Wedge added.

"An Imperial bogeyman fresh from the dark days of the Rebellion," Han muttered.

"If the rumors are true, we could be looking at another Katana Fleet scenario. A new Imperial battle fleet fresh from the assembly line, with modern ships instead of old ones," Wedge said. "I don't know how alarmed we should be yet, but some alarm feels appropriate."

Alarm was always appropriate, Han thought sourly. That was why he'd retired. He looked at the holomap being projected from Wedge's command table. The Core was enlarged and in focus, and on it Han could see the smear of New Republic red, and the dots of Imperial blue along the trade routes that centered around Corellia. Corellia itself was a slashed dejarik-board of yellow, blue and red, to indicate its contested, uncertain status. Daala's estimated fleet strength was displayed off to the side, although that too was multicolored—since the exact status of the Star Destroyers she had been using to garrison Corellia was still unknown. Still, that left her with a significant fleet they had yet to account for—and the whole reason Wedge had brought Han here was so Han could guess what Daala would do next.

Han thought back to his academy days. They'd shared a few classes and many of them had competitive elements. He could remember more than one strategy game which had begun with Daala suffering a serious loss… and he could remember how she had usually responded. "I think you have a more pressing problem."

Wedge, Kre'fey, and Atril turned towards him. Han leaned forwards, propping his elbows up on his knees, and stared at Wedge. "Where's Daala?" he asked.

"I have no idea," Wedge said.

He glanced at Atril, who shrugged. "Last we know for sure was the attack Stormhawk staged on Leria Kerlsil," she said. "Our best guess was that she had approximately ten Star Destroyers under her overall command, but six of those were at Corellia. That leaves her with four, which isn't exactly enough to pose a major threat."

"She's still out there," Wedge said, and his tone of voice suggested he saw Han's point. "Probably somewhere in the Core, probably somewhere close to Corellia. And she might not be able to punish Corellia with four ships, but if it's true that ISB has agents running herd on all Imperial fleet captains, ISB may force her to try anyway." He waved his hand at Han, beckoning. "Han, what's Daala's instinct going to be in this scenario?"

Han snorted. "Natasi Daala has one governing instinct: find a weakness and attack it."

"She's that one-dimensional?" Atril asked.

"If you saw the bone fractures she left in her wake, you might have assumed she was a Rebel operative sent to assassinate the Academy's graduating class," Han said dryly. "Look." He took a long drink, set the glass down on Wedge's table, and hunched forward, placing his hands on his knees. "Daala is not the most imaginative person I ever met, but she is determined, she is tenacious, and she is smart. She's also out there in the Core with a handful of Star Destroyers, any one of which could wreck a planet if given enough uninterrupted bombardment time. Whatever the Empire is cooking up with its Silencer Station is a problem for the future. For the next week or two? You should worry about Daala first."

Chapter Text

The first month or so of their confinement aboard Silencer Station, Cray and Nichos had worked together on the tasks that had been forced upon them. Nichos’ degeneration had made that more and more difficult, but there were still days that he felt strong enough to help for hours at a time. The muscular tasks he could no longer do, even on his good days, but Cray relied on him heavily for programming and debugging, so Nichos dug deep and found the strength he needed to help.

She worked so hard, and he would not let her work alone. Especially not now, when they were fighting to find ways to keep up their appearance of usefulness… while still looking for ways to sabotage the Empire. As of now, he noted, their code passed muster with the programs, but it was elegantly obtuse, rickety, and rife with repeating errors. The longer it ran, the worse it would work. 

He needed, he added silently to himself, to find a way to ensure that Cray would survive. Because Nichos Marr would find a way for her to survive. He would. 

His fiancé’s workspace, such as it was, was a far cry from the expensive, expansive, and immaculate facilities they had at the Magrody Institute. While Silencer Station had grown, the space allotted to her work had not, and the shelves were littered with old, failed prototypes. It had originally belonged to a scientist named Bevel Lemelisk and been built to his specifications… though Cray assumed that the locks on the outside, and the vents linked to canisters of anesthetic gas, had not been part of his original design. 

Now the center of the serpentine conduits, lab benches, and spartan seats was a simple chair, moderately cushioned and with high armrests. A monitor was affixed to one of the armrests, providing a conduit that the Silencer Station AI could use to send command information to the person in the chair. Above the chair, in a little rack that Nichos had built on a “good day” of greater physical strength and coordination, sat the command interface prototype that had not failed. 

It wasn’t much to look at. It had the appearance of a typical blast-shield helmet, with protection for the eyes, but on the inside of the shield were additional monitors and an array of neural-links which would allow instant mental commands to the station’s AI, and instant feedback from that AI. It was a masterpiece of cybernetic technology, a melding of the merely human with the massively artificial.

Emperor-in-waiting Irek Ismaren sat nervously in the chair. A teenager who had not yet reached full human maturity, there were times that Irek looked even younger than that. He was of slightly-above-average height, with black hair and blue eyes—eyes that had a tendency to follow Cray as she moved, Nichos noted with a small amount of amusement. 

The Emperor was accompanied by a pair of towering droids, of the same kind that Nichos had seen with the Emperor Regent. The DT-model assassin droid was being produced in large numbers now, and was an increasingly common sight aboard the station. He and Cray hadn’t had many unobserved moments they could use to plot sabotage, but he was sure that she had also spent hours considering it. But, unless she had come up with a plan more creative than his—not an unlikely possibility—they simply didn’t have any good options. 

Killing Irek would be much easier, but Nichos wasn’t sure what it would accomplish. It would be easy, though, to sabotage Cray’s interface and use it to overload the teenager’s synapses… 

“I want to try again,” Irek said, the depth of his voice mature even as the tone was not. He seized the interface and placed it on his head, turning to sit on the command chair. He was too small for it—it had been sized for Cray, and she was taller than Irek was—and Nichos was struck by just how small he looked in that chair. Like a child playing dress-up, he thought. A very dangerous child, playing with very dangerous toys. 

He should try a different tack first, before resorting to murder, Nichos decided.

* * *

Irek pushed with a thought and the screens on the interior of the helmet blinked to illuminated life. Sudden rows of text scrolled across the screen, far too quick for Irek to follow, and a sudden sense of pressure was all around him, as if the helmet was contracting around his skull. There was a sense of crackling static in his ears and nose and mouth and Irek’s body arched back in the chair, almost lifting up as his arms pressed hard to the armrests, his fists going suddenly taut. 

He felt the urge to scream and bit it back, nearly biting on his tongue instead, and tore the helmet from his head. His eyes were squeezed shut but he could still see explosions of light on the inside of his eyelids.

When he was finally able to open his eyes, he stared angrily at Cray. She had recovered the thrown interface and was examining it for damage. “Why won’t it work!” he snarled.

Cray shook her head. “It works for me, at least to establish a connection,” she said, sounding puzzled more than scared—or ashamed for her failure. “The helmet itself is working, so the problem must be connecting to the Silencer AI,” she mused. “But why would I be able to make the connection while he can’t?” 

The question was not intended for Irek. Nichos Marr coughed. Slumped in a couch to the side of the room, the crippled scientist was contemptibly weak, and Irek wasn’t sure why Cray insisted on bringing him to their sessions. “Let me see the error report,” he said feebly, his voice hoarse. 

If a stun blast could have such a dire effect on him, Irek thought sourly, he can’t have long to live. 

Cray handed Nichos a datapad, then helped him hold it when he proved unable to keep his grip. Irek watched, with mounting annoyance. “Is there a point to this?” 

“Nichos and I are a team,” Cray said, with patience that bordered on condescending. “And when it comes to debugging, it’s always a good idea to have a second pair of eyes—”

“There,” Nichos said weakly. “Line forty-seven ninety-eight.” 

He slumped back against the couch; Cray laid him down gently, then straightened. As usual, Irek was struck by the slender beauty of the woman. But she was silent, intently reading, and he grew impatient. “What does it say?” 

“Nichos is right, the problem isn’t with the interface,” Cray said. “The connection is being rejected by the Silencer AI.” 

“Why would it reject me and not you?” Irek complained. “I’m the Emperor!” 

“It wouldn’t let me give it commands because I’m not the Emperor,” Cray pointed out. “So it’s something about making the initial connection.” 

“You said,” Nichos wheezed weakly, “that Roganda told you that the Force was required for the connection?” 

That caused Irek’s head to lift. He stared at Cray, seeing her suddenly in an entirely new light. “You’re Force sensitive?” 

Cray shrugged helplessly. “I don’t even know what that means, much less how it could help commanding an AI.” She shook her head. “I’ll be right back. I need another cup of caf.” 

The workspace had an adjoining office with a caf machine. Irek was still grappling with the idea that Cray was Force sensitive as she vanished through the door. She’s Force sensitive? 

His mother had taught him many things, but the most important thing was that he was special. They were special. They had a gift, one denied to most people in the galaxy. One that made them better. The Force was all the power of the galaxy, distilled into a form that could be accessed by those worthy of its power… and Irek and his mother were worthy. 

“I think,” said Nichos weakly from his place, prone on the couch. “That you too can use the interface, if you have the right perspective.” 

The interruption was unwelcome, and Irek turned a scornful gaze on Nichos. It was wasted on the man, whose eyes were closed and breaths came slow. Annoyed, Irek pouted. “And what is that supposed to mean?” 

“The Force is not just a matter of power,” Nichos sighed, sounding exhausted but determined, “but also a matter of focus. Do you know how to listen?” 

“What do you mean, listen?” Irek asked, curious despite himself. What could this man know of the Force? “I am Emperor . If there is any listening to be done it is people hearing my wishes and carrying them out!” 

Nichos just nodded blandly. “Empty your mind,” he encouraged. “Don’t think of your desires or your needs. Empty yourself of those things. Then activate the interface.” 

If this didn’t work, Irek thought sourly, he might just kill the man. But… he returned to the command chair and placed himself back upon it. Closing his eyes, he did his best to clear his mind; he found it was easier with Cray not in the room. Then he reached and put the command interface on his head. 

Electricity once more crackled around him, tingling over his skin. His hair went frizzy and the pressure started to build, filling his ears and nose and brain. His heartbeat went rapid as the lines of text scrolled before his eyes, flashing, and he felt a sense of sudden invasion and presence, his brain recoiling, almost fighting against it—

And then it all stopped. Pain receded back to pressure, and the text scroll slowed to a stop. 

COMMAND INTERFACE ESTABLISHED. SILENCER-7 AWAITING INTERLINK. 

The words gleamed in green against a black background and sudden, joyous success roared through him. “Yes!” 

He wasn’t sure if he’d said the word aloud. He thought he heard talking, somewhere in another life, but he was laser-focused on commanding the Silencer AI, for it would make him Emperor in truth, and not just in name. 

Show me! 

The system hesitated for a moment, parsing that order. He realized, belatedly, that he needed to be more precise in his commands. A map of the system appeared, with the label K-3-947. The system’s star was in the middle, and Silencer-7 was marked over the fifth planet, slowly consuming it for resources. TIE Droids were dotted over the map by the squadron, though most of them had been taken by Halmere for his assault on Poln Major.

Automated, droid-commanded transports streaked across the system occasionally. The system indicated that they were carrying necessary supplies from Entralla and other Imperial military bases. 

In the back of his mind was a twinge. His brain took a moment to interpret it, and then he recognized it was an alert conveyed through the command interface. He wasn’t sure how to respond to it, and it took him another minute to figure out how to use the interface to bring up more information. 

On the map in front of him appeared a new symbol. A slightly elongated triangle, it was labeled Invincible. As it grew closer, it started to blink red, and a small status alert marked it as HEAVILY DAMAGED. 

* * *

The sprawling halls of Silencer Station were dark and maze-like on purpose. Irek was not intimidated by the DT-model droids that were responsible for the Emperor-Regent’s protection; they had, after all, been designed specifically to serve his mother and himself, and graven into their circuits were commands that would prohibit them from ever doing him harm, no matter what Halmere might intend. 

Anger mixed together with an intense desire to gloat. Halmere had taken their fleet—twelve Star Destroyers was a not insignificant amount of the New Order’s strength—and had lost almost all of them. No doubt his mother would take Halmere to task for his failures when she returned, but until then, Irek was Emperor.

He did not wait for the door to open. Using his override code, he commanded it to do so, and it obeyed. Striding into the Emperor-Regent’s private quarters, he stopped in sudden surprise as he entered and found himself in a space utterly unlike anything he had expected.

A lavish apartment, perhaps, with ancient Sith artifacts, not unlike the rooms his mother maintained. Or a room fit for royalty, like those he had observed in his younger years. 

Instead, he stood in a small-scale planetarium. The space was largely spherical, lit darkly, and filling the space was a holo-projection of the galaxy. Mostly a disk that captured the galactic plane, it also had extra-galactic objects and numerous, gray lines of varying widths that connected star systems. He could see where those lines coincided, and realized that those locations were key star systems, like Coruscant and Corellia, and the lines were hyperlanes. Some of the thinner lines constantly flickered, in and out. 

An arm clamped around Irek’s neck and he flailed in surprise. He was jerked backwards, his head knocking against Halmere’s armored form. Flailing, he grabbed at Halmere’s arm, but a second arm locked around him, holding him in place, pressure growing on his neck. “Hasn’t your mother taught you not to enter where you are not welcome, boy ?” 

Panicked and furious—how dare Halmere lay a hand on him!—Irek lashed out with the Force. Rage fed his power and the burst of telekinesis exploded out from him, breaking Halmere’s grip. But Halmere’s footing was steadier, and instead of blowing the Emperor-Regent backwards, as he had intended, Irek found himself flung forwards, flying through the hologram of the Galactic East with a staticky fuzz towards the far well. 

Blue lights flared in front of his gaze, dazzling his vision as his head passed through the Bothan sector. Momentarily blind, Irek reached out into the Force, abandoning his senses. His hand moved without thought, guided to perfectly deflect one of Halmere’s fists, but he moved too slow to block the second, which slammed into his stomach and drove the breath out of his lungs. 

Irek doubled over, gasping for air.

A thick arm snaked up around his neck once more and he was wrenched backwards, thudding against Halmere’s chest. Scared and stunned, he kept his eyes closed—the hologram of the galaxy was still projected at near eye-level, and opening them was searing. “Was there something you wanted from me, my Emperor?” Halmere growled contemptuously into his ear. 

It might, Irek reflected as he gasped weakly for breath, be best not to antagonize Halmere by commanding that he sanitize his mouth. “I have… succeeded…” he managed to husk, panting for shallow breaths, “in… issuing detailed commands… to  Silencer-7…” 

He realized, belatedly, telling Halmere this might not be the best idea. As the Emperor-Regent’s iron-muscled arm clenched harder around his neck, ridding him of the ability to take even shallow breaths, it occurred to him that Halmere might interpret his words as a threat. The world started to turn black and he tried, again, to use the Force to free himself, and for a moment he thought he succeeded when he collapsed to the floor like a gaffed fish. 

He took a single full breath, then swiveled to slam his leg into Halmere’s midsection with a rising kick. His unarmored leg struck Halmere’s apronlike cuirass, and his plans and anger dissolved into a shock of pain. 

Halmere stood over him, his cold blue eyes burning like frozen fire. “Your mother has made a lot of promises, boy. Promises to me. Promises to you. Promises to the Moffs, and promises to herself, about what she can do, and about what you can do.” One hand reached down and Irek was yanked to his feet roughly. “So far she has kept none of them. She promised the Empire that Silencer-7 would turn the war in our favor. She promised that it would build us a fleet and an army that would defeat the New Republic. Her failures have given us defeat after defeat.” Halmere’s hand gripped Irek’s jaw and tilted his face up. “You say you can command Silencer-7? Good. Now give me the TIEs I was promised a year ago.” 

A burst of Force-power pushed Irek towards the exit. Humiliated and furious, he considered turning back to challenge Halmere once again… but something in his gut, something in the Force, told him that if he did, he would not be leaving this room alive. He started to move towards the exit. 

“Boy.” 

Irek stopped and looked back over his shoulder. 

“I knelt with Vader at Palpatine’s feet,” Halmere said flatly, his pale blue, almost white eyes staring at Irek with the ferocity of daggers. “I know what his power was like. His was superior. ”

A half-dozen retorts flashed through Irek’s mind, but that nagging sense of danger, of acute danger, did not pass. He did not nod. He did not say a word. He merely turned, and left.

Once he was safely outside, his pace quickened to a near-run, and Halmere’s DT Droids stood silent sentinel over his flight—unable, or unwilling, to protect him from his own regent.

Roganda Ismaren landed in a small, out of the way hangar on Nar Shaddaa, deep in what had, in archaic times, been the Industrial Sector. Now several thousand years removed from its heyday, the Industrial Sector was a hodgepodge of poverty, homelessness, and destitution. Even the smugglers endemic to Nar Shaddaa—the ‘Smuggler’s Moon’—usually avoided the Industrial Sector. There was simply no reason to go there. 

The only reason to so much as set down was if you were conducting a business deal that you wanted to remain completely secret, or if you were one of the unfortunate sentients who had found themselves trapped on Nar Shaddaa without credits or the means to make credits. The only industry left was a flourishing, underground hydroponics sector who produced just enough to feed the locals and make a few of them petty monarchs of the destitute. 

That was all right with Roganda Ismaren. She respected those industrious enough to rise to the top of their own little dungheaps. That took strength and guts. 

She didn’t need to worry about a crew. Roganda had never worried about a crew. During her time as Emperor’s Hand, she had always managed on her own. Crews were liabilities. They were traitors in waiting, or incompetent; the Empire was filled with such things. Only she’d had the Emperor’s true trust, she knew… and because of that, he had always supplied her with agents she could trust. 

The metal of her small army of droids was painted black. Constructed anew by Silencer-7—another droid, programmed to be loyal to the Empire and to her personally—her DTs were an advanced design based on the ones the Emperor had once provided her. Untraceable, lethal assassin droids, the DTs had been her protectors and her agents, and she would settle for nothing less than perfection. 

Once she had the artifact she sought and her army was complete, the loyalty of the Empire would be completely assured. She and Irek would rule, never needing to worry about the ambition of a Tarkin, the obsession of an Isard, or the dithering cowardice of a Pellaeon. 

The combat droid she had designated as her aide-de-camp, DT-130, made an unintelligible sound, and then dinged once. The second sound was one she had programmed into the droid to tell her when she had received a message via the HoloNet. Now that they were on the ground, her transport had automatically linked to the Y’Toub System’s HoloNet node. A second ding—this one slightly lower in pitch, and drawn out for a full second—indicated that the message in question was from Irek. 

She smiled. He was so well-mannered, her son. The Jedi had been wrong about the importance of proper breeding—their insistence that Jedi not bear children had been one of the Order’s greatest weaknesses, especially given that Force-strength was often inherited—but they had been exactly right about the importance of training from birth. She had been trained by the Jedi from birth, after all, and those lessons about discipline and serenity had not been entirely misguided. So many of the young Inquisitors—like that whelp Brakiss—had lacked the early Jedi training, and it showed. 

Her son appeared on the flatscreen. His expression immediately killed her good spirits—he was flat and emotionless, as he often was when bearing bad news. “Mother, the Emperor Regent took our fleet and attacked Poln Major,” he said, without preamble. “He was forced to retreat with heavy losses. Both the fleet and the TIE droids performed abysmally. I will take personal responsibility for persuading our resident cyberneticists to ensure that our TIE Droids perform better in the future.” 

Roganda’s fist clenched until her knuckles went white. Anger—not rage, not yet, she would not give into the rage that boiled in her stomach until she had a target deserving of it—lit bright in her heart. Halmere, you fool.

The self-destructive moron. 

Halmere was capable enough. His Force talents were acceptable, and he was competent… within his area of expertise. But he had always been a second, never the leader. As an apprentice he had failed to earn the attention of a Master, as an Inquisitor he had lived for years in Tremayne’s shadow, and after Endor he had languished as Jerec’s administrator, while Jerec (like Roganda) sought ancient artifacts and places of power that he could use to impose his will. Now they were both dead, and that left Halmere—poor, timid Halmere—despite his size and outward mein and mantle of manly warrior strength as the leader of the Inquisitors. 

Halmere had always been capable . He could administrate. He could oversee. He could manage. But he could not lead. Roganda, you fool, she thought to herself bitterly. You knew you still needed him, and still you let your contempt get the better of you. You drove him to this with your needling. 

She relaxed her fist and reminded herself that it didn’t matter. If she could find the Emperor’s prize on Nar Shaddaa then she would not need Halmere. She would not need the Empire and all those competing egos and biological inefficiencies that had ground it to a juddering halt. All she would need was Irek and her droids; their loyalty and their competence was unquestioned and unquestionable. She would be the Empire. 

As if expecting that thought, Irek told her exactly what she wanted to here when she resumed the message. “I have good news as well. I have successfully activated the Silencer-7 command interface. It is only a matter of time before I have mastered it.” 

The breath Roganda released was one she had not realized she was holding. Had been holding, in fact, for quite a long time. Irek’s inability to issue commands to the Silencer-7 AI had been an inconvenience, but not a deadly one. Once she delivered the seed, once she accomplished that final merger between the technology of the Empire and the ancient secrets of the Dark Side of the Force, she was not fully sure what Silencer-7 would become. The Emperor had intended to command it himself, and Roganda had always needed Irek to ensure its obedience to her will.

He had finally succeeded and she was on the verge of finding the seed. All was provenance.

The transmission died, and Roganda gave a small nod of approval. Her son seldom bothered to end messages with any empty platitudes. 

“Acknowledge receipt of message,” she said in her flat, Coruscanti accent. “Tell the boy to treat the woman and the cripple gently; they will break if too firm a hand is applied and their expertise is still necessary. And give him my personal congratulations for his success. Then we hunt.” 

* * *

The depths of the old Industrial sector were dark. This part of Nar Shaddaa had never undergone the extensive renovations of a few thousand years before, which had cleared out old buildings and brought much of the moon closer to its true surface. Here the towers were clustered even closer together, and the closer to the ground you got, the more they became an interlocking maze. Old, decrepit buildings, wall to wall, block to block, filled with destitute and dangerous wildlife and old, still vital planetary utilities systems maintained by droids constantly fighting back that wildlife. She could look up and see old lighting systems which had long since lost their glow. Without that glow there was almost no light at all, and no natural light. This far down, the natural, orangish-brown sky of Nar Shaddaa was entirely invisible, and there was no real distinction between “outside” and “inside.” It reminded her a bit of the maze-like interior of the depths of Silencer-7.

Her droid companions were unbothered by it. Roganda actually found the entire experience… invigorating. She had always enjoyed the hard work of archaeological endeavour. The Emperor’s assignments had never been burdens—she expected that was why he had chosen her, why she had been the one given these assignments which now would define both her future, and that of the galaxy—but glorious puzzles to solve. Even when she had been a child, with the Jedi Order, she had enjoyed puzzles, and the multitude of Force-manipulation games put aside for the younglings had been a perpetual joy. 

This puzzle would take her some time to solve, she knew. But she had the time. 

She started by narrowing her search. As best she could tell, the object she had found amongst the ruins of Drommund Kaas had been recovered from Nar Shaddaa. Further research had provided little in the way of precise information, but ancient records had pointed her towards the Industrial District, and to the likelihood that the best indication that she was getting close to her quarry would be territorial droids. Droids were common in the Industrial District—the Hutts utilized small armies of them, and mercenaries, to routinely travel down and clear out threats to the extensive, ancient infrastructure near the ground—but most of those droids had missions that it was easy to identify. This team of droids was specifically defending an old water filtration plant. That team of droids was responsible for the power generator that was still used, despite its age, to provide energy to much of the neighboring districts. So what she was looking for was droids—without—an obvious mission.

Granted, that wasn’t enough to narrow her search entirely. Some of the teams of droids had been sent by Hutts a few centuries before, or even longer. With a few maintenance units, they could in theory sustain themselves almost indefinitely. She found a small cadre of droids which was still defending a building which had no apparent purpose. The droids were old, but not so ancient that their designs were unrecognizable, so Roganda had been pretty sure they weren’t what she was looking for… and indeed, once her own combat droids had cleared the building, she’d found them defending what had once been a luxury apartment, with a well-protected safe. She hadn’t bothered to look inside. 

Days later, and much deeper down into the district, her scout droids gave the first indication of something truly interesting. A surveillance droid—a floating unit, small and inconspicuous but one that her own modern units spotted with relative ease—kept watch on her team as it had cleared one of the buildings. Intrigued, she ordered her droids to clear other nearby buildings, and note when they were watched and when they were ignored. Then, as she continued to explore the buildings around the ones that were watched, her team reported two surveillance droids… and then three.

She tracked them back to the midl-levels of a particular structure. This was one of the older buildings—Hutt records suggested at least seven thousand years—and it appeared to be comparatively well-maintained, with no sign of serious structural flaws… which was interesting, given that it had received no maintenance to speak of. It was also enormous, a sprawling structure which linked into a network with a dozen other buildings, she she continued to narrow her search. Once they were inside the surveillance droids had vanished—perhaps whatever intelligence governed them realized that she had been following them back to their source—but that was alright. Her team of combat droids was more than capable of searching the entire building, and with their power sources they could operate autonomously day or night without need for rest. 

It had been an unexpected surprise when her aide droid beeped an alert at her. “Combat engagement reported,” her datapad announced, complete with a red exclamation and a summary. 

“Where?” she asked, tapping the device. Dutifully, it responded that one of her search teams had been attacked while examining one of the corridors in the building she was searching. Right that moment there was a battle going on between her modern unit and a team of droids. The datapad provided schematics, but they weren’t anything she recognized… and that was good. “Come with me,” she ordered her aide. “Send reinforcements. Tell them I want that corridor searched!” 

When she got there herself, she found herself in the middle of a furious blaster battle. Her DT droids marched into the corridor, their armor protecting them from the blaster fire coming their way, but not entirely. Several units were damaged, and several others had been destroyed. Scattered in the corridor were the metal corpses of their foes, slain in much greater numbers. She used the Force to take one of the metal bodies out of the line of fire to examine it; her aide droid stood watch, blaster at the ready. 

Linking back to her ship, which was connected to Nar Shaddaa’s HoloNet node, she began a slow query back to the Ubiqtorate base on Yaga Minor, which hosted all of the Empire’s records. That would probably take hours, so instead of waiting she examined the droid herself. She knew quite a lot about droids—she was no cyberneticist, but her preference for assured loyalty meant that she insisted on maintaining her units herself, and was familiar with contemporary models and maintenance. These droids had numerous systems designs that were completely archaic. She could parallel them to modern designs—that must be a power generator, and this must be a primary motivator—but beyond that, they were opaque. 

“I think we have found it,” she said to her aide. 

DT-130 beeped with satisfaction. 

“Bring all units here,” she ordered. “Tell them to fight on.” 

* * *

Six hours later, she had become sure of two things. First, she was definitely in the right place. Second, she may not have brought enough droids. 

Her units were decimating the enemy with relative ease. But they never stopped coming. Her droids had pushed them back farther and farther, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the structure they defended… towards the artifact that Roganda was sure was driving them. But as many as she destroyed, there were more still coming, and her forward units announced that their numbers had abruptly doubled. 

An artifact that could create an endless army of droids, she reminded herself, bitterly self-castigating. An endless army, Roganda. But you didn’t believe that it would create that army here and now, before you even had it in your hands! You were a fool. 

If Halmere found out about this, he would humiliate her. She wouldn’t even be able to hold his debacle at Poln Major against him. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment at the thought. “Retreat,” she ordered her aide, wanting to preserve as much as her combat power as she could while she came up with a new plan. There must be some construction facility hidden away, some power generation source—maybe that generator that was still powering the nearby district was also providing power here. 

Her droids obeyed, falling back in an orderly retreat. Perfectly coordinated and timed, they did not flee as men would, panicked and confused. They kept up constant fire, slaying the enemy droids by the score as they fell back. But the enemy droids kept coming, kept coming in even greater numbers… and even after they had retreated to the point where combat had first begun, they did not stop. 

Roganda found herself cursing as she ducked blaster fire. She was a capable fighter, anyone who was Palpatine’s chosen Hand was a capable fighter, but that had never been her true purpose and she had no business trying to fight off an army of droids! The Rangers at Belsavis had taught her to fight with any weapon at her disposal, but their emphasis had always been on  hand-to-hand combat and running to survive. She fired her blaster as she fell back, her aide following her loyally, always keeping its bulk between her and the enemy. Luckily, the enemy did not seem interested in her personally, its attention consumed with hunting down and destroying her smaller droid army. Leaving her aide behind to cover her escape, she returned to her airspeeder and jetted into the sky, silently cursing her own stupidity. 

Below, the unleashed army of droids finished exterminating her DTs… and then, it started hunting new prey.

Chapter Text

The Pulsar Skate is a happy ship, Mara thought, but she isn't home.

Mirax Terrik's ship had an artistic elegance that the more industrial Tempered Mettle lacked, with graceful, sloping curves that gave the ship an organic, sea creature-like appearance from the outside. Her interior wasn't lacking either, with an orderly, well-structured use of space to maximize cargo capacity while still providing for passenger privacy and comfort… for small numbers of people at least.

It was more that Mara preferred her own ship and her own space, hard-won as they both were. Especially when she had Luke with her, Mara took comfort in a happy cocoon of shared isolation, letting Luke in and keeping everyone else out.

She knew it wasn't an entirely healthy instinct and she was working on becoming more comfortable around other people—she really, really was, especially Leia and Han and the twins, people who were part of Luke's life and therefore part of her life whether she liked it or not—but it was something that took an effort. It was an effort she invested consciously, slowly allowing a level of intimacy with her friends and… family… that the Emperor's Hand would have abhorred, and there were moments where it was even really satisfying and brought her happiness.

Having Luke helped. He was so emotionally open, so quick to invest himself in others, so able to empathize, that sometimes all she had to do was put herself in his wake and she would be swept along beside him. Sometimes he had to do a bit of pushing and pulling, she admitted, but he never forced her hand. It had been the same way during this trip. Mara already knew Mirax and considered her a friend, but Liat was entirely new to her, and the Sullustan was almost obnoxiously cheerful and friendly, two traits Mara could not ascribe to herself. Of course, Liat and Luke got along quite well—increasingly so over the duration of the tip, as the two of them spent hours conversing about the politics of the Jedi Order or obscure smuggler's argot, topics which Mara could easily follow and contribute to—and despite her qualms Luke always brought her carefully in to join them. Now, nearing the end of the trip, she was actually starting to like Liat and enjoy his company.

It was nice. Kind of.

"So you did enjoy the trip," Luke teased beside her as the two of them dressed. Luke's Jedi robes were packed away, deemed far too conspicuous for Nar Shaddaa, and the two of them put on a pair of typical spacers' duty jumpsuits. Comfortable, loose without being baggy, and with plenty of pockets, the jumpsuits were a cornucopia of places suitable for concealing tools, comms, and weapons. Luke carried only his lightsaber in a leather tool case and his blaster on his hip. Mara carried everything she thought she might need.

"Days passed like days and not months," Mara said noncommittally.

Luke chuckled and leaned over to brush a kiss to her cheek. "I'll take that as a yes. Liat likes you, you know."

"Does he?"

"Most people like you after you let them get to know you," Luke confirmed.

Mirax's voice came over the Pulsar Skate's intercom. "I've received docking clearance in the Corellian District," she said, "where I normally land when I can. There's a lot of activity around here and I'm not entirely sure why, but it could be about everything going on back home I guess. After we're on the ground I'll have to deal with the dock manager—stay out of sight while I do. There shouldn't be trouble, not with all my father and Karrde's connections on my side."

"How long until we can meet with your contact?"

"That may take a little longer," Mirax replied. Over the sound of the intercom they could hear the regular beeping of the ship's controls, which matched the gentle hum of the engines. "I don't expect he's busy, but that doesn't mean he'll stop everything because I want to meet with him. So I guess we can start with some more traditional information gathering."

"I'd like to scope out the docks," Mara said. She'd spent a few hours reading the available maps of the Corellian district and memorizing the important locations and streets, but there was nothing like some time to get to know streets herself—just to be safe.

"That's fine," Mirax said.

Luke shrugged. "I'm not sure what I'm going to do exactly," he said. "I'll see what presents itself. Sometimes the Force is most helpful when I let it guide me, rather than demanding it show me the path to my destination."

"Whatever lifts your speeder," Mirax replied, her voice taking on a bit more of a staticky hum as they entered the atmosphere. The engines cooled, and in their place the repulsorlifts started to whir. "We're making our landing approach now."

Nar Shaddaa felt remarkably like Coruscant, in some ways. It was not as populated as Coruscant, but nowhere was as populated as Coruscant. Coruscant had more than a trillion inhabitants; Nar Shaddaa had only eighty-odd billion. But despite the magnitude of the difference, in the Force it was hard to tell from a distance. Both worlds gleamed with light and life—and with the selfishness, desperation, and fear that could lead a sentient down the path to the Dark.

It was an odd feeling. Mara had grown so much stronger in the Force since she had accepted that her future was with the Jedi. Her sensitivity and awareness of the life and lives of the sentients around her was constant now. That Darkness was a constant in the lives of sentient life, a temptation ever present—even, perhaps especially, for a Jedi. Being on Coruscant, with so much life, her sensitivity to it naturally waned, like her hearing during a loud concert. Above Nar Shaddaa, slowly sinking towards that tiny gleaming ball of light, which rotated around the darker, tidally-locked Nal Hutta, her Force-sense revealed to her all those sinews of Darkness, all the temptations, all the choices being made to exploit and corrupt for selfish advancement. She could feel why Nar Shaddaa had the reputation it did—and how the Light struggled back, pushing itself to the fore whenever and however it could.

Even as Mirax brought them down towards their landing pad in the Corellian District, the sensation had started to fade. The excess stimulation of her Force-sensitivity dialed back so it would not overwhelm her conscious senses, and with it faded her constant awareness of the web of Darkness built at the foundations of Nar Shaddaa.

"How long ago did Terrik set down?"

Asori Rogriss sat perched on the edge of the copilot's seat, petting at the shuttle's sensor display. Their intelligence was plain—Mirax Terrik and the Pulsar Skate had arrived on Nar Shaddaa, and there was no indication that the ship had departed again. Typically, a ship as insignificant as the Pulsar Skate wasn't of much concern to Imperial Intelligence; their computers did indicate that it had a history of Rebellion affiliation, but so too did thousands of other freighters. But Pulsar Skate had been tied to the Smugglers' Alliance and Mirax Terrik had assumed the politically and economically important position of liaison between the Smugglers' Alliances and the New Republic government. That had put it on a watch list—not one that was checked very often, but a watch list nonetheless—and one of Intelligence's operatives on Coruscant had noted its departure and its destination.

"Best guess? A day. Maybe a day and a half," Dreyf said. "We're lucky we were already on our way into the Core before we got the intelligence update, or we probably wouldn't have gotten here fast enough to intercept her."

Asori had to remind herself that the objective of this little mission wasn't to attack the Skate, but to communicate with it. That still felt strange. She was no diplomat, after all, and few people had ever accused her of having a diplomatic manner. But now, seemingly thanks to some favor General Antilles owed her father, she'd been chosen as the officer who would convey not just an offer of peace, but an offer of active military collaboration between the Empire and the New Republic.

Just a few months ago she would have been apoplectic. Now? After Carida? After killing Judicator? After Poln Major? Somehow, all this felt like a small step down a path she had already been walking.

"We're going to want a landing spot somewhere in the Corellian District," Dreyf was saying. "That's probably where Pulsar Skate landed, and even if it's not, the Corellian District is well-integrated into Nar Shaddaa transport networks and there are lots of humans there we can use to blend in."

"Then find us a landing pad," she ordered, watching the gleaming moon of Nar Shaddaa as it orbited Nal Hutta and finding an old catchphrase of her papa's. "The sooner begun, the sooner it's done."

"Yes ma'am."

It was the better part of two days before Mirax's contact finalized a time to meet. Luke and Mara had spent that time searching for signs of the Emperor's Hand, but unsurprisingly given all the dark promise that accompanied the name, they hadn't found anything. Nar Shaddaa was a mere moon, small enough that its gravity had to be amplified with robust, ancient gravity generators to allow it to reach the standard range. Despite its size it was densely populated, busy, and subject to a constant churn. Luke watched, fascinated, as people came and went with incredible rapidity.

The Corellian District in particular was humming, almost pulsating with life and anticipatory energy. Rumors of events on Corellia ran rampant, ranging from a full Imperial bombardment of Coronet to the collapse of Imperial rule, and the tens of thousands of Corellian exiles who had moved to Nar Shaddaa at some point in the previous decades—mostly to escape the reaches of the Imperial-aligned Diktat—were equal parts trepidatious and enthused. The enthusiasm was gradually growing, as the catastrophic rumors receded and were replaced with more optimistic ones, and a number of locals had jumped into spaceships and raced off to Corellia—to join the fight to liberate their homeworld or join in the celebration, Luke couldn't be sure.

But all the chaos and news of Corellia meant there were little rumors, and even less conversation, about anything else. Local news of events on Nar Shaddaa—including anything that might have implicated the New Order—was buried under the din. Their most effective collector of information turned out to be Artoo and Slips. The two piloting and astrogation droids, freed from those responsibilities while Tempered Mettle was in dock, had put their electronic brains and efforts to work, searching for anything that might be useful. So far, they had come up with one lead: in the old Industrial District there had been several reports of haywire droids attacking locals, seemingly unprovoked. It wasn't much to go on, but Luke and Mara had been about ready to go check it out when the communique had arrived.

The meeting place selected was in a public space. A cantina near the docks that comprised the heart of the Corellian District, it reminded Luke not insignificantly of Mos Eisley. Darkened lights, with a circular bar at the center of a sprawling, labyrinthine space, sentients of every species clustered in alcoves. Some alcoves were boisterous, others were sullenly silent, as a variety of droid servers wandered through, proffering drinks and appetizers to paying customers.

The droids were pretty insistent, too. "Are you certain I can't interest you in anything to eat, Masters?" The hovering server unit had no face, but its vocabulator flickered with light as it spoke.

"You've already asked us that twice," Mara said, not drinking the glass of lum she had reluctantly ordered. The foam in the glass was gradually settling, revealing how little actual liquid had been inside to start. She leaned forward, glowering at the droid with narrowed, emerald eyes. "And you're starting to annoy us."

"I mean no offense, Mistress," the droid said. "I was just under the impression that when people came into an establishment that sells food, it was with the intention of purchasing some to eat."

The droid's tone was more than vaguely sarcastic. "Really?" Mara asked, more than matching the sarcasm. She peered around the room theatrically. "From the looks of things, people mostly come to this establishment to drink stale lum."

"Well I never," the droid protested. "If you thought so little of our lum, you didn't have to buy any."

Luke fought back a smile as Mara held up the glass, peering at it pointedly. The foam had almost entirely receded now, leaving a remarkably small amount of liquid in its wake. "I think less of it with each passing moment," Mara said dryly. She put the glass on the droid's serving tray. "Here, take this back. I won't be needing it after all."

"You intend to just sit here and take up space?"

"It would seem you have the space to spare," Mara retorted. "And I paid for the lum." She leaned towards the droid, her eyes narrowing. "Don't. Come. Back."

The droid made an annoyed sound and spun away, hovering a bit tipsily on its lazily-tuned repulsorlift.

Luke laughed, shaking his head. "I doubt they'll ever let us back in."

"I doubt we'll ever want to come back," Mara countered. "But if we do, the serving droids won't be so pushy. I worked in places like this after Palpatine's death, remember. I know the type, if they've never seen you before, their programming says you're an offworlder to be soaked for every credit."

"You know the lum isn't half bad," Luke offered.

"You can drink it for both of us."

Luke smiled, toasted her with his own beaker, sipped, and grimaced.

They looked up as Mirax slid into the seat, artfully twirling her comlink between her fingers. "Our contact is on his way," she announced proudly.

"Is the Hutt coming here to greet us himself?" Luke asked skeptically. The bar was big enough for a Hutt—maybe—but a Hutt would never be able to arrive unnoticed.

"I don't think so. His majordomo will probably come in his stead." She leaned towards them, dropping her voice so low that they had to lean in to hear. "I just heard from Corran. The rumors are true—Corellia is free." Her smile remained broad, and in the Force she was nothing less than sheer, giddy joy. "He's staying there for now to help them ready their defenses and couldn't say much. Just the important part—Corellia is free."

"How did it happen?" asked Mara.

"I don't know yet," Mirax admitted, though that lack of knowledge did nothing to dim her spirits. "But the latest rumors are that the Imperial fleet guarding the system switched sides after they were ordered to bombard the planet to put down an uprising."

Luke grimaced. "Well, thank the Force for that."

Mirax nodded seriously. "You can say that twice."

A stir of commotion back near the entrance to the bar caused Luke to glance over. The cantina opened into a spacescraper's lobby; the neon lights of advertisements and chatter of people moving and talking both drifted into the bar from the outside. The lights intensified as the door to the cantina suddenly opened wide enough to admit a new customer—this one resting on a floating repulsorsled more than two meters in diameter. As the doors closed again, once more shutting the neon lights from outside out, shadows closed over the sled, making it impossible to see what was on the sled. Whatever—whoever—it was, it had to be an alien, and one that had a very low profile.

"I think I recognize the sled," Mirax said, "If I'm not mistaken, that's our contact."

One of the server droids hovered near the sled, conversing with whoever the sled carried, and then bowed and backed off with a respect its compatriot hadn't shown Mara. The sled started slowly towards them. Luke focused, trying to get a better look, but still didn't see anything other than a blobby lump low on the sled.

"Is that an Iyra?" Mara asked a moment later, sounding surprised. "What's an Iyra doing working as a majordomo for a Hutt?"

"What's an Iyra?" asked Luke.

"A cephalopod species," Mirax explained. "They're rigidly insular and don't often involve themselves in the affairs of outsiders." She nodded towards Mara. "Mara is surprised because their society is a rigid caste system based on the number of tentacles they possess, and Iyra are famously scornful of Hutts because—in their eyes—Hutts are nothing more than one giant tentacle, which would put them at the very bottom of the Iyra caste system."

"Then why is an Iyra working as a majordomo for a Hutt?"

"Stek is… special."

The sled had come close enough that Luke could get a good look. Sure enough, the sled was actually a pool of water which bubbled slowly around the large, sprawling figure of the Iyra. The creature was almost perfectly symmetrical, with four eyes arranged around four long, curled arms, except that one of the arms was severed close to the base.

The Iyra's eyes turned towards them, its eyestalks pivoting as it came close. Two of the four eyes focused on Luke; the remaining two focused one each on Mara and Mirax. "Formal Greetings, Master Trader Terrik and her companions. I am Stek Lernn, Executive Secretary to the most illustrious of all beings, His Eminence Beldorion. How may my illustrious master assist you?"

"Stek," Mirax greeted him cheerfully. Her good spirits after the news of Corellia still buoyed her, and the enthusiasm came across clearly. "I have need of a personal meeting with His Eminence."

"Have you located a fresh supply of Jedi artifacts?"

"No," Mirax admitted. "Unfortunately, all the artifacts I retrieve are spoken for by the Jedi Order these days."

"My master will be disappointed to hear that," Stek replied. "But not terribly surprised."

"They do offer competitive rates, but I have something better," Mirax said. She leaned towards Stek, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, both of her very human eyes looking into the one of Stek's eyestalks that was focused on her. "I'm sure you recognize the people I'm with, and I know Beldorion is interested in meeting with them. His fascination with the Jedi is second to none… and what better way to satisfy that interest than meeting a real, living Jedi?"

Two of Stek's eyestalks were still watching Luke. Luke peered back, feeling more than a little awkward. The eyestalks flexed and twitched, as if trying to view Luke from every angle. "This is unexpected," Stek admitted after a moment. "This object must be of great importance for you to come here yourself, illustrious Jedi."

"It is," Luke said, finding his voice. "And I am interested in meeting the sentient who has such curiosity about the Jedi and our culture."

"I will relay your request to my master," Stek conceded. "I am not certain what he will say, but unless you hear otherwise, you may attend him in his palace at midday tomorrow."

Nar Shaddaa was like someone had taken Coruscant, shrunk it, and aged it before its time. The cramped, steaming alleyways of the Corellian Sector were full of disreputable figures and poverty—both things Asori had long since learned to associate with the Hutts.

Despite the fact that she was tucked safely away aboard their transport, Asori was dressed to match. With careful makeup and a fusty bandana tied around her head, her disguise made her feel vaguely piratical. The treasure-trove of powerpacks and vibroblades that festooned her blast vest only amplified the effect.

Asori Rogriss, pirate Queen on a budget. If only poor Mama and Papa could see me now…

Asori looked up as Dreyf returned. The intelligence officer looked oddly at home in an appropriately-battered gunman's getup. He offered her a wide grin and slid into the chair next to her, clinking buckles, groaning nerfhide and all.

She terminated her own search algorithm. "I take it you've found them?"

Dreyf nodded. "I'm pretty sure. There's a modified Baudo-class yacht in one of the VIP hangers. I'd guess that being a Terrik brings our quarry some privileges among the smuggler community, including the best landing locations. There are a couple other candidates, but I got close enough to see one and it lacked all the visible modifications that Pulsar Skate has."

"Did you get close enough to see our prime candidate?"

"Not the ship itself, but I got close enough to watch comings and goings from the hangar for a few hours," Dreyf replied. "I didn't see any humans, so I couldn't confirm Terrik's identity that way I'm afraid. I did see a party of Sullustans, there seemed to be some kind of small get-together."

Asori checked her datapad. "Pulsar Skate does have a Sullustan co-pilot," she pointed out.

"Lots of ships have Sullustan co-pilots," Dreyf countered. "But I agree, it is another point in its favor. I'll continue monitoring tomorrow and see if I can confirm. The ship doesn't have a flight plan logged, so it has no expected departure date."

She considered that, then shook her head. "Smugglers aren't known for logging all their travel plans honestly," she countered. "And if Miss Terrik departs Nar Shaddaa, there's no guarantee that we'll be able to track her to her next destination or follow her even if we can."

"Give me one day," Dreyf said. He held up both his hands. "One more day to confirm their identity. Then we can approach them and you can make the Baron's pitch."

She pressed her lips together, unhappy. This was not a mission that could go wrong. They had to get this right—but one of the many lessons she had learned at Carida was that indecisiveness was just as bad as making a bad decision, and many times worse. "One day," she agreed. "But just one. After that, we'll make our approach."

* * *

One day and some questionable meal choices later, she leaned towards Dreyf. "How much farther?" she whispered, trying to strip the polish off her voice. Her accent wasn't identifiably Imperial, but Anaxes had long been associated with the Imperial fleet and she tried to keep its distinctive cadences from being too noticeable. She wasn't entirely successful—unlike so much of the fleet, she'd never really been able to lose her native accent and replace it with Coruscanti standard.

"Not far," he replied in a guttural growl. The sound carried, and while the words themselves were harmless, the remaining denizens of the cramped alleyway moved back a pace in response. They didn't scuttle too far—not yet—but gave the two humans a respectful amount of space. "Boss' words were clear. 'Chust past the third scrap shop, right when we see the 'Rema stand."

She shook her head, forcing herself to make eye contact with the large Weequay that was standing at the end of the hall, and equally forcing herself to offer a smile that was half-respect, half-threat. She thought back to the emotions of the Battle of Poln Major, the fury that had come from watching Exigent's slow death and channeled that fury in the expression.

The alien merely nodded his respect, which only reinforced her opinions of this place.

Beside her, Nzem Dreyf appeared enraptured in his role as her bodyguard, and well-at-home. His stride was confident and comfortable, as if all the degeneracy of Nar Shaddaa was another familiar, welcome environment. She wasn't sure if that improved or harmed her opinion of the man.

The sprawling alleys of Nar Shaddaa made little sense. Unlike many urban environments on smaller worlds with planned urban centers, buildings here had not been constructed along an identifiable grid for ease of traffic. Instead, the buildings—especially in the older districts—were mazes of geometric buildings that rose haphazardly into the sky, creating endless twists and turns, with streets constantly shifting between wide, narrow, and even narrower. Occasionally there were open squares, but most of those had become landing pads, and coming close meant the whine of repulsors and engines. Higher above ground level the buildings become narrower, creating enough space between them for airspeeders to create the neat lines Asori remembered from her time on Coruscant… though Nar Shaddaa's traffic control was noticeably worse than Coruscant's rigid, override-imposed order. Somehow, she hadn't yet seen a fiery crash, but she was holding out a perverse sort of hope.

The main array of landing pads stretched along the exterior of the Corellian district, and the landing pad they were interested in was elevated above ground level, in a location more secure than most. They continued in that direction, past a row of street food vendors. Sizzling oil and the heady smell of spices made Asori's mouth water involuntarily; the next stall sent a hiss of steam into the alley, forcing the aliens (and Asori) to duck under it. The fried crustacean skewers looked like they would taste wonderful, but Asori wondered if the subsequent health problems would really be worth the momentary pleasure. A—herd? Den?—of Sullustans clustered at the stall, and Asori had to dodge out of their way.

Then she and Dreyf emerged into a wider alley and the pace of their progress picked up. Less confined—if no less labyrinthine—she followed him as he led them determinedly towards the docks. A few minutes later, he ducked into another tight alley—this one far less busy than the last—and gestured for her to watch their back. She turned to do so, one of her hand resting on the single blaster she carried that she would be comfortable using—her service-issue sidearm, riding in a subtle, easy-to-access holster at her hip.

It took Dreyf only a few seconds to pop the door lock and they slipped through. The back door to the main hangar, she found herself in a large machine shop, which reeked of metal rusted in harsh heat. Inside, droids were hard at work on a variety of starship parts: modified engines and military-grade lasers and souped-up repulsorlifts, among other things. The droids paid them no mind, and Dreyf led them through the machine shop. They stopped at the door and Dreyf pushed it open slightly, peered through. Then he nodded and they marched through.

Getting through the front door would have meant going through security. There was no telling how long that would have taken, or even if they would have succeeded—and it would have been another opportunity for their covers to be blown. So instead, they had agreed that the best option was to sneak past the hanger's (not particular good) security apparatus. Dreyf had prepared the way the day before, and thanks to his efforts they had made exceptionally good time.

"Where's Skate docked?" she asked, not bothering to keep her native accent out of her voice now.

"Just a little further."

She nodded. None of this was comfortable—she wasn't a ground asset. She had been trained to be the commander of a warship, and Star Destroyers and their brethren were her proper environment. Commanding Termagant at Poln Major, or being the XO of Exigent, were her comfort area. Luckily, Dreyf had enough comfort with all the skullduggery for both of them.

They stopped once more, so Dreyf could do something at one of the computer terminals they passed. Then it was with profound relief that they entered the hanger bay, and a midsized Baudo-class yacht that Asori had expected to find was, indeed, sitting still in its berth, its loading ramp open like the maw of an underwater behemoth.

Asori let her hand fall from her blaster. They were here; that meant now was the time for negotiation, not violence. She was, after all, not here as the commander of a warship or a captain in the Imperial Starfleet. She was here, spirits help her, as a diplomat.

"The Pulsar Skate," Dreyf announced unnecessarily, clear pride in his voice.

She nodded—he deserved to take pride in having gotten them this far—and stepped towards the depressed landing ramp. Peering up into the hold, she lifted her hand and knocked it lightly against the metal. "Hello?" she called. When there was no answer, she strode slowly up the ramp. Just being aboard a ship—even if it wasn't her ship—was so much more comfortable than being on the ground. "Captain Terrik?" She glanced back at Dreyf. "No weapons."

Dreyf nodded and followed her up, keeping his hands away from his body. "Captain Terrik?" he called, echoing her voice.

"Echu-ta, chaboskam!"

The sudden alien voice made Asori spin around, but it still took her far too long to find the figure. The squat Sullustan who had spoken was wearing a rebreather and a nerf-hide jacket, and was in cover amongst the many crates the Pulsar Skate carried. The Sullustan clutched a DH-17 blaster—a favored weapon among Rebel Marines, one that would pierce stormtrooper armor but not a ship's hull.

The sudden rustle of motion presaged that the Sullustan was not alone. A trio of additional figures were at the end of the ramp, behind them, holding a collection of scrounged weaponry. They had those weapons pointed at her back—their beady eyes were narrowed with suspicion and concern—and use them to nudge her and Dreyf deeper into the cargo hold.

"We mean no harm," Asori tried as one of the Sullustans manipulated the ramp control to seal it up, locking her and Dreyf inside.

Two more Sullustans popped out of corners, also holding improvised weapons. One stepped forward and reached into Asori's belt, depriving her of the flasher and more obvious weapons, and then of her service pistol. A second did the same to Dreyf—he carried far fewer weapons—and then they patted them both down.

"Taka-sala et rasati marr," said the lead Sullustan. He lowered his pistol. "Falah rasti sana ah Mirax?"

Only one word in that gibber made any sense to Asori. She assumed that while she did not speak Sullustan, that they would speak basic. "My name is Captain Asori Rogriss. I need to speak to Captain Terrik."

"Taka-sala!"

"He's saying put your hands behind your back," Dreyf offered, doing just that.

"You know Sullustan?" Asori asked as she complied. The Sullustans were thorough. Now that she and Dreyf were disarmed, one of them approached again, carrying a medical-grade scanner. She felt the static hiss as it swept over her even as a second Sullustan stepped behind her and put cuffs on her wrists.

Realizing that Dreyf spoke Sullustan, the leader of the… den… that had captured them turned his full attention to the intelligence officer. A series of rapid-fire words were issued; Dreyf occasionally replied, offering simple answers. Finally, the Sullustans put her and Dreyf in a small cabin and locked them in.

"Mirax isn't here," Dreyf said with a sigh, wiggling to try to get comfortable in his chair despite the cuffs locking his arms behind his back. Asori did the same, unsuccessfully. "Apparently she's meeting with someone. Liat refused to say anything more than that."

"When will she be back?"

"They don't know. They did offer to get us dinner, though—apparently they saw you looking at the fried crustaceans back at the alley and they're both inexpensive and tasty."

She sighed. "I had decided that however good they smelled, they probably wouldn't be worth the digestive issues later."

Dreyf didn't smile. "I'm sorry, ma'am. They have clearly been tracking me since one of my surveillance trips. I never caught a hint of them and I should have, I knew this ship had a Sullustan co-pilot."

"Don't apologize," Asori said. "This might be for the best." She wiggled. "This gives Captain Terrik an advantage and a sense of control when we meet, and we didn't do anything that could be construed as dangerous, other than circumventing hangar security." She shrugged, the motion marginally uncomfortable with her hands bound. "So now we wait."

Chapter Text

Luke Skywalker would be the first to tell a stranger he didn't know a lot about a lot of things. The galaxy was a vast place after all. But he was rock-solid sure about the things he did know, and Luke Skywalker knew Hutts.

When he had been six years old, Uncle Owen had taken him aside one late morning and told him about Hutts. They had just finished their chores—at that age, Luke hadn't been much help with the vaporators, but Owen often had him tag along to learn basics and even then Luke had possessed an aptitude for mechanical tasks, small hands, and a willingness to learn. They were returning to the homestead for an early lunch. It hadn't been the first time Luke had heard of the Hutts, as they were a constant topic of conversation in both the Lars homestead and the greater community of Tatooine moisture farmers that had been Luke's whole universe, but it had been the first time Owen had sat him down to talk about them.

Owen told him about Jabba in simple terms. About the Hutt crime syndicate and its power on Tatooine—the power that came with wealth and violence and the willingness to use both. He told Luke a little about the Hutts more generally, and their galaxy-spanning crime cartels.

When Luke was a bit older, Beru and Owen taught him how to fire a slugthrower. Luke needed to know how to defend the homestead against Tusken raids, which happened every now and then especially when water was particularly scarce, but his aunt and uncle had made it clear that the Tuskens weren't the only threat they faced. Jabba's people were dangerous too… and when you fought Jabba's people, you were not allowed to miss. The Tuskens would just vanish into the desert if you looked like a tough enough prospect, but Jabba's thugs always came back.

Luke learned not to miss.

For a couple years, when he had been in his early teens, Jabba's minions had started pressing on the farmers. Luke had learned how to act stupid and scared, and to always point those minions in the direction of even wealthier game… usually in the direction of the nearest Krayt lair. He could still remember one time he'd convinced a pair of Jabba's thugs that one of his friends had found some treasure deep in the Jundland Wastes. After they left, talking excitedly to one another in a language they hadn't known he spoke, he rushed home to get his slugthrower, just in case they came back wounded and looking for payback, but he never saw them again.

He kept forcing himself to not reach for the blaster he had tucked in his hip holster. Mara insisted he carry it, so he did, and feeling its weight reminded him of those shooting lessons with his aunt and uncle.

Breathe steady, place the sight where you want the shot to go, let your finger take up slack on the trigger and know that when you pull, you can't take it back. So you always have to be sure.

Walking through the narrow, winding streets of Nar Shaddaa, between buildings (or through building complexes) was more like Coruscant than Tatooine, but the place still felt eerily familiar to him. Nar Shaddaa was different from Tatooine, to be sure. But it reminded him strongly of home, nonetheless. The way the people carried themselves wasn't that different from what he'd seen in Mos Eisley.

The shared characteristic of both places?

The Hutts.

Mirax and Mara were a pace ahead of him, chatting amiably about Talon Karrde's smuggling operations. They didn't say much of substance—of course not, given where they were—but the two were sufficiently well-versed in the shared vernacular of the Smugglers' Alliance that they could have an entire conversation about shipping routes and communications procedures without much fear of a casual observer learning anything of value. Mirax led the way through the busy streets of Nar Shaddaa, guiding them out of the Corellian District. They emerged from the narrow confines into an open space between structures, which towered all around them, a glitter of transparisteel and neon lighting, and jumped into one of the available airspeeders. The automated systems accepted Mirax's instructions about their destination, and then the three of them lifted into the sky, suddenly many hundreds of feet above the ground, picking up speed and joining the lines of light traveling through the wider spaces between Nar Shaddaa's spacescrapers in the sky.

He could feel it, all around him. The longer he was on this moon the harder it became to ignore it. The misery of so many, enslaved and exploited, taken advantage of by the few all the wealth flowed to. He knew that slavery had existed for a long time—any native of Tatooine did, and Owen and Beru had told him that his grandmother had been a slave, before Owen's father had bought her freedom—and that slavery was deeply ingrained in Hutt society. That reality snarled in Luke's stomach, a knot of revulsion that could grow into something very Dark if he let it.

"Sometimes it's good to be disruptive," Mara had said while they were on Dathomir, observing the society of the witches and the effective enslavement of the men of that world. Somehow, Dathomir had never bothered him as much as Nar Shaddaa did right now, and Luke wondered if maybe it should have bothered him more.

He caught Mara looking back at him. Wordlessly, she arched a single eyebrow. She didn't need a mental touch to communicate—that expression said it all. Are you all right?

He nodded back a bit too stiffly.

Mara eyed him skeptically, but nodded back and resumed her casual conversation with Mirax. Nevertheless, a moment later, he felt the warm reassurance of her thought-presence slide up his neck and soothe his spiky thoughts as Mirax hailed a robo-hack.

After a thirty minute ride in a dingy, droid-piloted airspeeder, they arrived at the outskirts of the central Promenade. The spacescrapers were taller and more brightly lit, surrounded by a thick cloud of airspeeders and spaceships. Landing pads were busy, populated by expensive yachts and prosperous-looking, well-maintained freighters. This place was permeated with wealth and energy. Luke leaned towards the window of their speeder, peering down below, and for the first time in a long time he saw a Hutt, its entourage of droids and supplicants surrounding it, traveling ponderously on an elevated slab of a repulsorsled.

Just like Jabba.

"Beldorion's estate isn't in the center of the Promenade," Mirax said, jerking Luke out of his extended reverie. "He's not rich or well-connected enough to demand that, and I'm under the impression that he has only been back on Nar Shaddaa for a few years, after decades away. So we'll have to do a little more walking after this bucket puts us down."

"Where was he before that?" Luke asked, wondering what little rock the minor Hutt had found to prospect.

"I'm not sure," Mirax admitted. "When people have spoken about it with me, their stories were a bit vague and confused. I don't think any of my normal contacts really know. It was either someplace pretty remote or Beldorion kept a very low profile." She popped the airspeeder's side hatch and slowly swung her legs out; Mirax's pregnancy was progressing, and she was not quite as nimble as he would normally have been. Luke and Mara did not offer to give her a hand. They had tried that once; not again. .

"I had never heard of him," Mara said. "Not even when I worked for Karrde, so he'd have to be far from the heights of Hutt power, a nobody in the cartel and kadjics."

Mirax's response was a bit labored, and she finally turned towards Mara. "He doesn't have a clan, so he has no route to power that way," she said. "And I never got the impression from him that he was interested in power." She shrugged. "Though, it's hard to say. Hutts aren't the easiest sentients to read." She nodded towards a huge open square, shining with orange light, which led into numerous adjoining, wide boulevards. "This way."

* * *

The first surprise was that the palace wasn't one.

Mirax had mentioned that Beldorion wasn't like most Hutts, and was without the casual grandiosity that typified their culture. But even still, the building that Mirax led them to lacked a sufficiently palace-y feel, especially when compared with Jabba's or any of the other governor's or Moff's residences he'd had one or another reason to visit over the years. In fact, Luke thought with a degree of cautious bemusement, it looked nothing so much as a high-end office building. Slightly upscale and refined, but with a minimalist flair. It didn't stand out compared to the buildings around it; at the end of a winding street, there was a fair gap between the row it ended and the next one, which a myriad of airspeeders used as a shortcut.

Once inside, the minimalist flair was only more apparent. The hallways were sleek, clean, and well-lit—all traits Luke did not associate with Hutts—and wide enough to permit a Floating Fortress to pass along if not easily, at least with room to spare. A pair of guards at the end of the hall were not the expected Gamorreans, or even rough-looking humans, but a pair of Evocii in tailored suit-jackets with the slight bulk that suggested armorweave and concealed weapons. That was surprising, given the history of enslavement and abuse the Hutts had inflicted on that species over the previous few thousand years—it was rare for a Hutt to allow an Evocii in their presence armed for any reason. Neither of the figures appeared in any discomfort, though, and Luke saw no sign of a slave collar or other device intended for a similar purpose.

Mirax approached the guards and held up her datapad. "We are here to see Beldorion, at his invitation," she announced. "I have here approval to enter, given to me by Stek."

The Evocii evaluated the datapad, scanned it, and then stepped aside silently to let them pass. Just inside the doors they were greeted by Stek. The Iyra was not carried by the repulsorlift that had brought him to the bar the day before. Instead, the three-tentacled sea creature slithered across the floor towards them with remarkable speed, leaving behind a slick trail of moisture that was cleaned up promptly by a trio of brush-wielding mouse droids that followed in his wake. "Master Trader Terrik, Jedi Skywalker, Jedi Jade," the Iyra greeted them, its four eyestalks—each one mounted evenly on one quarter of its body, aligned with its three tentacles and one stump where Stek had apparently lost a tentacle—swiveling to look at all of them at once. "It is my pleasure and honor to welcome you to Master Beldorion's personal enclave. If you'll come with me, I will take you to him."

The sides of the hallway had, just along the wall, a slight depression which was filled with water. As they moved, the Iyra consistently reached out its tentacles and dabbed them in the water, apparently in order to stay hydrated. Luke wondered if being and Iyra on Nar Shaddaa was roughly the same as being a human on Tatooine. Behind the Iyra, the three mouse droids raced alone, preventing the floor from becoming slippery in his wake and consistently staying out of the way of the three humans following.

The route they took was a circuitous one. While the hallways were well-lit and lacked the claustrophobia maze-like layout of Nar Shaddaa's alleyways, the building was laid out on a complicated grid, and Stek had them turn several times. Beside him, he could feel Mara concentrating, memorizing the way they had come. Luke let her focus on that, because he found himself endlessly distracted by the items they passed as they traveled those halls. Small alcoves recessed the walls at seemingly erratic intervals, and in each one was some kind of artifact. A preserved sculpture, a banner from a world Luke didn't recognize. A stand of antique Mandalorian armor and weaponry.

Stek didn't mind when Luke paused for a close look at the exhibits, and Luke wondered if Beldorion would let Tionne come to see everything the Hutt had collected here.

The farther in they went, the more common it was for the artifacts to be Jedi in origin. A set of archaic Jedi robes, not too dissimilar to the ones Luke wore nearly every day. A lightsaber, complete with an extended description of its original owner. It reminded Luke strongly of the Jedi Museum on Coruscant that the Emperor had turned into his personal playground, although not suffused with the sense of menace he had worked so determinedly to dispel.

In spite of his fascination, and despite the lack of that kind of palpable Dark Side presence, Luke nonetheless began to feel a strong coldness creeping up the back of his neck. Maybe it was the Dark Side, just better hidden. But, Luke admitted, it could just be his own, far more natural discomfort.

He was going to meet a Hutt, after all, and his time in Jabba's palace Luke had gotten closer to the Dark Side than he had at, perhaps, any other single time in his life, Palpatine included. He had hated Jabba the Hutt, for what Jabba had done to Tatooine, to his grandmother, to other moisture farmers, and to Han, and that hatred had been a subtle knife, egging him on—and blinding him. Perhaps that coldness was not the Dark Side at all, but merely his own biases, and Luke did his best to acknowledge and control them, reminding himself that such things were very much still of the Dark.

Besides, he reassured himself, he trusted Mirax. He trusted this Hutt's own self-interest. And he trusted his and Mara's ability to improvise, if improvisation became necessary. After all, the Hutt had not disarmed him or Mara. Both of them still had lightsabers at their belts, among other less obvious weapons.

Stek stopped before a large door plated with what looked like capital-ship grade armor and guarded by two more Evocii, this time bearing blaster rifles, and extended a single tentacle to the retina-scanner in front of it. After a series of slightly-ominous thumps, the blast doors unsealed and swung open.

The party entered what turned out to be a small amphitheater.

Luke was struggling not to project his experiences at Jabba's onto the scene unfolding before him, and despite scanning for a hidden trapdoor at the center of the room, he was surprised yet again. More antique artifacts studded alcoves around the large room, and instead of fawning sycophants, armed mercenaries and chained dancing girls, a vast array of open-plan desks with HoloNet connections took up most of the space, worked by a diverse range of species from Gran to Gungans, each in a slightly individualized business-casual suit, and each typing furiously away while speaking into ubiquitous headsets. It was the very model of a modern day-trader's office, but no one was shouting or running. Everyone was calm, and working in sync.

He didn't have to look far to find Beldorion. The Hutt was of all things… toned and fit for a Hutt, resplendent in a Mandalorian style undress tunic custom-cut to fit his massive frame. Beldorion was wiggling away forward on a massive treadmill, one built into the center of the room, while he rumbled away on a Hutt-sized headset of his own in resonant Huttese.

Compared to Jabba, Beldorion was visibly enormous, and unlike Jabba, he was leaner and more obviously athletic. Luke had never seen Jabba move much, and Leia had managed to strangle the Hutt crime lord with her own, purely human strength, possibly augmented by unconscious Force-use. He was certain that Leia would not be able to defeat Beldorion in the same way. From his athletic wiggle on the treadmill, Beldorion was quite fast despite his size. "Ahhhh," the Hutt said audibly as he saw Luke and Mara approach, and bowed slightly. "[Welcome, Jedi, to Nar Shaddaa]."

"His Majesty, the Magnificent Master Beldorion, bids welcome to Jedi Skywalker and Jedi Jade," Stek translated. The Hutt's majordomo had crawled over to a small pool next to the Hutt's treadmill and slid in, its tentacles submerging under the water while his eyes remained above.

"[Master Trader Terrik, it is rare to see you on Nar Shaddaa. Too rare. Congratulations on the impending addition to your clan.]

His eyes swept over Luke and Mara, assessing with a single golden glance.

"[You have outdone yourself this time. I often asked you for ancient Jedi relics; I did not expect you to bring me live articles of the current vintage. Be welcome also.]" Beldorion's voice rumbled in Huttese.

"Thank you, Eminence," said Mirax, offering a little bow.

Stek began to translate, but Mirax waved him off. "It's all right, Stek. Our Huttese isn't perfect, but we can follow it well enough." She bowed to Beldorion again, a bit more shallowly. "A temporary visit only, you understand. Unlike those previous items, Jedi Skywalker and Jedi Jade are a bit too busy to join your collection."

Beldorion's laugh rumbled over them. It was eerily like Jabba's, but more vibrant, almost friendly. The laughter drew the attention from the army of aliens at the computer terminals all around them, but they did not allow themselves to be distracted from their work for long.

"[I believe I know why you are here, Jedi Skywalker,]" Beldorion said.

"Mirax told you the basics, I believe," Luke said calmly, keeping his tone the same steady, conversational one he often used for diplomatic engagements. Though that tone had done little to make peace with Jabba…

"[Indeed,]" Beldorion replied. The Hutt eyed him closely, even slithering forward off the treadmill portion of the floor. Luke was forced to look up to meet the Hutt's gaze, and next to him he felt Mara take a step closer. "[You wish this to remain between us, I assume?]"

"We do," Mara said firmly.

"[Send them out, Stek.]"

The majordomo contracted his tentacled limbs slightly, his head emerging higher out of the pool. A low wail emanated from him, one that echoed through the space with surprising volume, cutting through the chaotic din of all the workers at all their stations. At once, every screen on every monitor went black. Seemingly unsurprised, the numerous besuited business-barves who had been working those stations pushed back their ergonomic chairs, removed their headsets, and each headed to the nearest exit as if Stek had indicated there was an emergency that demanded evacuation.

Beldorion slithered back slowly, his massive head lowering so it was closer to eye-level with Luke and Mara and his gaze intense. "[You seek an artifact of the Force on this moon, that belongs by legal right to the Hutts and their progeny,]" Beldorion said, his voice slowly tumbling over each word, as if ensuring they were communicated with utmost precision. "[And you believe there is another here, also searching for that artifact.]"

Luke and Mara glanced at Mirax. She nodded subtly, then shrugged her shoulders. "That's right."

One of Beldorion's stubby hands lifted. The Hutt's expression was grimly serious. "[Let me guess,]" he said. "[The artifact is one that gives life to the artificial. Droids, we might call them, suddenly created in large numbers, and encouraged to march out and conquer all that surrounds them.]"

Beside him, Luke felt Mara's sudden spike in tension. He himself felt the same, and instinctively his hand moved towards the saber on his belt. He stopped himself before he took it in his hand. "That sounds like something an Imperial operative would want," he agreed grimly. "Did you seek the artifact already, to know so much about it?"

"[I did not,]" Beldorion replied, just as grimly. "[The artifact has already made its presence known on Nar Shaddaa.]" The Hutt withdrew a small remote and triggered it. Behind him, the back wall suddenly shimmered, revealing itself to be not merely a well-illuminated support for the room's high ceiling, but also a massive flatscreen. Shades descended over the windows, casting the room in darkness. "[This is the Old Industrial District,]" Beldorion narrated as the flatscreen started showing images taken from flying droids, looking down into the rusty ravines and piled scrap between buildings. Far below there were flashes of blaster fire; the droids gradually dropped down for a better view, and revealed a growing firefight between what appeared to be a group of mercenaries and droids that Luke did not recognize. "[This battle is happening as we speak.]"

They watched the battle. Droids were destroyed—many of them, in fact—but they continued to appear out of the adjacent structures. They did not come in overwhelming numbers, but they never stopped coming. "How long has this been going on?" Mirax asked. "And why does no one on Nar Shaddaa know?"

"The Old Industrial District has long been abandoned," Stek explained. "And the Hutt families do not want there to be panic on the streets of Nar Shaddaa. They have isolated the district and forbidden all news stories. So far, the droid infestation appears to be controlled."

"[So far,]" Beldorion rumbled. "[But the battle has been ongoing for days, and what you see—]" he gestured at the screen with his stubby hand "[—has been happening for all that time.]" He wiggled back around to face them, his enormous, muscular Hutt form twisting as he circled. "[Nar Shaddaa is one of the oldest inhabited worlds, and the Hutt kajidics have a long history of collecting powerful artifacts. To find one here is not entirely unexpected.]"

"The Empire has agents here," Mara said. "Powerful ones, ones strong in the Force. They want to capture this artifact to use it as a weapon against the New Republic."

"[Powerful Force-users, aligned with the Dark, want to capture a mysterious weapon to use against the Republic,]" Beldorion said, his voice an oddly sarcastic drawl. "[What a novel concept. Surely after four thousand years they would come up with something more original.]" In spite of himself, Luke smiled, and the massive Hutt's treadmill began to move slowly, at the equivalent of a slow walk, to match its massive user's more contemplative pace. "[But I suppose Palpatine did,]" his gaze swept over Mara, assessing her again. "[Didn't he.]"

Luke frowned. "Will you help us?"

"[Yes,]" Beldorion said. "[I have told you what I know. I will also see to it that you receive any equipment you desire from my armory and clearance to enter the Old Industrial District, in the hopes that you solve the ongoing crisis by ridding Nar Shaddaa of that artifact. If you do, it will be a credit to me among the Clans for addressing a problem they could not solve.]"

"You seem to know a lot," Mara said skeptically. "About Mirax, about the Jedi, about the crisis. About me. Why should we trust you?"

Beldorion's laughter rumbled over them like thunder. "[I am an old Hutt, Jedi Jade,]" he said. "[Older than most. Older than almost all, in fact. Unlike my kin I take the Force and its powers seriously. I had occasion to meet many Jedi of old—Master Fay, Master Yoda, Master Jinn. I also knew when Palpatine took power that remaining in seclusion for the duration of his reign would be best. I had no interest in drawing even the slightest notice of a Dark Lord of the Sith.]"

They all looked over as Mirax's wristcomm started beeping. Luke and Mara looked over at her; Mirax looked back apologetically, and retreated to a far corner of the room, talking quietly into it.

"You didn't answer my question," Mara said to Beldorion pointedly.

"[You are a fascination,]" Beldorion said. "[The Jedi of a new era. Let us bargain. If the very inquisitive Jedi Skywalker is willing to answer a question of my own, I will do my best to set your concerns about my motives at ease.]" His gaze swung back to Luke, and as he stopped moving, the massive treadmill creaked to a halt. "[You don't trust me, do you, Jedi?]" he rumbled in a low voice, almost friendly.

"Is that your question?"

"[It is a start.]"

"No," Luke said, too-calmly. "Would you trust you unreservedly in my position?"

"[As a child of Tatooine,]" the Hutt replied, "[You are all-too-aware of the excesses of my kin. How many members of your extended family have been slaves to the Desilijic kajidic, I wonder? A Jedi you may be, but those are hatreds that run deep.]"

"Yet still you brought me here," Luke replied, "to the center of your power."

"[Power,]" Beldorion rumbled, "[does not reside in tawdry edifices. I brought you here to gain your measure for myself. It was a calculated risk.]"

"Oh?" Mara asked, arching an eyebrow.

"[That the child of Owen and Beru Lars would not take life unless he had to, and that this Emperor's Hand had hung up her vibroknives in exchange for a lightsaber.]" He regarded her with the narrowed eyes and slight smile of sly amusement. "[I would posit that the hanging-up of the vibroblades is only a metaphor, of course.]"

"You are strikingly well-informed," Mara said. Luke could feel her grudging admiration for Beldorion's intelligence resources at the same time as a slight pang of discomfort. His lover was a notoriously private person.

"[In my line of work,]" the Hutt said, "[I have to be.]"

"Ask your question, then," Luke said, with a touch of grim humor, because the Hutt had never specified his exact line of work, "and let us see how well we can inform each other."

"[Your new Jedi Order, what principles guide it?]"

Luke closed his eyes, felt the Force, and spoke. "Service. Service and Justice."

"[Simple guideposts,]" the Hutt said. "[Noble goals. I look forward to seeing how you differ from your predecessors. I have no interest in seeing Nar Shaddaa overrun by an army of droids. Go. Find this artifact. Take it off this world.]"

"Answer the question," Mara ground out. "Why don't you take this artifact for yourself, to use it to take control of Nal Hutta?"

"Please, do not impugn the name of His Eminence Master Beldorion with such calumny," Stek interrupted, in the tones of a dutiful butler attempting to maintain the proper decorum in his well-defined space.

Mara glared at the majordomo; Stek's eye narrowed at her in response.

Beldorion raised a single thick finger, and Stek stilled instantly, while the Hutt resumed his motion. "[People never last, Jedi Jade]" Beldorion said slowly, "[and droids will always wear down and break at the worst possible moment. Too brittle a thing on which to build an empire. As your former master, Talon Karrde, knows all too well, true power whispers. It is there when you wake up in the morning, and when you go to sleep at night. It is guarded as assiduously as your Home Fleet guards Coruscant.]"

Mara was just about to reply, to probe more deeply, but then Mirax came back with a concerned expression. She didn't say anything, but Luke got the distinct impression that they should wrap the meeting up as quickly as possible. He found, though, that there were questions he had to ask first.

"Let me ask you a question. How much do you know about the Jedi of old?" Luke asked, sudden curiosity overwhelming his reservations. "You knew Master Yoda?"

"[Better than most. Better than almost all,]" Beldorion repeated verbatim.

Luke could feel Mara's growing agitation, her consternation at his being drawn into this line of questioning, especially after his revelations about their personal history. But the appeal of the knowledge this Hutt offered… Hutts could live for a thousand years or more, which meant if Beldorion was as old as he suggested, he could easily remember, and even have known, the Jedi of old. "Would you be willing to tell us more about them? Their practices, their attitudes…"

Beldorion's treadmill once more came to a stop. The Hutt slowly leaned down towards Luke, one of his eyes massive through the lens on the headset he wore. "[The Jedi of old are dead, Jedi Skywalker,]" Beldorion said. "[You do not need to know what they did, or the decisions they made. You have all you need to remake your order anew.]" He slowly returned to his full, massive height, towering above the two humans and his majordomo. "[Stek will give you everything he can to aid you in your quest for this artifact. Keep it from the Empire, lest they consume us all with it.]"

"Thank you," Luke said, "And if you change your mind…"

The Hutt glanced over at Mirax and Mara, "[Then I know how to reach you.]"

Reluctantly, Luke let Mirax and Mara lead him back out of Beldorion's meeting chamber.

"What is it?" Mara asked Mirax.

"Trouble," Mirax said grimly.

"Let's see about that armory on the way back then," said Mara.

Less than twenty minutes after their departure from Beldorion's office complex, Luke, Mara, and Mirax arrived back at the hanger that housed the Pulsar Skate. They found a crowd of friendly Sullustans—friendly Sullustans armed to the teeth—surrounding and talking excitedly with Liat. Mirax's copilot was the only one not armed, and her concern faded as she saw the comfortable confidence of the crowd.

"Where do you have the prisoners?" she asked, trying to let Liat's apparent confidence soothe her own concerns. It wasn't like Liat couldn't handle himself—he would never have lasted as her copilot otherwise.

The Sullustan explained—in rapid-fire dialogue that would have been very difficult for most humans to follow—that the two humans were locked in the cabin that they used for such things. Used rather more often than Mirax really liked, actually.

"Let me," Mara volunteered, and took the lead marching up the Skate's depressed ramp. Mirax followed with Luke behind her. Mara banged on the door to the cabin, then pressed the door release. Within were the two Imperials, hands bound, sitting unhappily in chairs, right where Liat had left them.

* * *

The woman with red-gold hair was not the one Asori expected to see, but Mara Jade was unmistakable… and her picture had been in the briefing documents that Grand Moff Ferrouz had provided. Beside her, Dreyf made a soft noise of surprise.

"Come now," Mara said bluntly, though there was just a hint of playfulness to it. Like a grown pitten playing with its meal, Asori thought sourly. "If your intelligence staff is any good, you should have known that Mirax and I work together. My being here can't be that much of a surprise." Mara moved to Dreyf, hoisting him off of his chair and standing him up with an obvious glower. "Oh no, Commander Dreyf, you are the intelligence staff. How embarrassing. Hello again. Tell me, is this a pleasure?"

Dreyf coughed lightly. "It is convenient. We were hoping to meet with you as well, after we persuaded Master Trader Terrik to take us to Coruscant."

"Liat says your disguises needed some more work," Mirax observed skeptically.

"Persuaded Master Trader Terrik to take you to Coruscant," Mara echoed. Asori watched as Mara and Mirax's eyes met briefly as she again counted the number of visible weapons in the room not in proximity to her while guessing about all the concealed ones… behind them was another figure, and that was—

"Why did you want to go to Coruscant?" Luke Skywalker asked. He wore a thoroughly boring spacer's jumpsuit rather than his now-signature Jedi robes, but his presence was unmistakable. Asori felt surprise at his visage though. Rebel propaganda had shown him with twinkling, almost joyful blue eyes. The discerning gaze she felt herself sink into was more akin to an ice-cold comet fragment.

Jade was before her in an instant, hoisting her to her feet; Asori stumbled, then caught her balance. "My name is Captain Asori Rogriss. I come on behalf of Grand Moff Ferrouz and Admiral Pellaeon," she announced, trying to mimic the dignity of a career diplomat. It was hard with her hands restrained behind her back, she kept wanting to move them to add some emphasis to her words. "To consult with General Wedge Antilles."

"Rogriss?" said Luke thoughtfully. Asori felt a pervasive sense of discomfort—emphasized greatly by the wrenching where the binders around her wrists kept her hands locked together—and to her great relief he waved his hands in a small gesture to undo her bindings. The things were Imperial-issue, and Asori knew they had all kinds of nifty settings for ensuring the compliance even of a Wookiee.

While she was extremely glad to have them removed, she also knew they were supposed to be uncrackable.

It was also the first time she'd ever seen the Force used. She was a bit surprised she didn't feel more surprised or unnerved than she did.

Next to them, Mara made a soft sound of mild annoyance, and undid Dreyf's—though she did it herself, without the show of power. "Behave," she warned him. "Or I'll let Mirax space you."

Dreyf smiled politely, looked at Mirax, who greeted his gaze with the full force of her unbridled potential for mayhem, and swallowed any further rejoinder.

Satisfied, Mirax turned her attention back to Asori. "Then you came looking for me because you knew I could get you to Wedge?" Mirax frowned deeply. "I don't like that my business and personal ties are so well known to the Empire." She folded her arms across her chest. "What made you think I'd cooperate?"

"Inside information," Dreyf said, a hint of preening pride overriding her professional embarrassment at their capture. "Despite marrying one of the Galaxy's only Jedi and being Corellian Smuggler royalty, you have kept a low profile. We just happen to have expert knowledge."

Mirax glared at him again, and Asori could visualize the airlock. It wasn't hard, they'd passed it on the way in. "I have a message for you," Asori interjected, rubbing her wrists to encourage the full restoration of blood flow as she tried to take the heat off Dreyf. "If you'll allow us?"

The Smuggler Princess gave a gracious wave of her hand.

"I have the message," Dreyf added, producing the small cylinder from a hidden pocket somewhere on his person. "But we'll need a holo-projector."

"Fine." Mirax turned her back on them, opening the hatchway to the rest of the ship.

The party emerged into a larger hallway and were regarded with interest by a cluster of beady-eyed Sullustans. They were still armed with the same nasty-looking weaponry they'd possessed while taking her and Dreyf into custody, but they didn't look quite as bloodthirsty, and did not follow. Mara, Asori noted, never let Dreyf leave her sight… which Dreyf clearly noticed and which made him half-smile, half-wince.

The bridge of the Pulsar Skate was a neat, orderly space, with a co-pilot's seat suited for a Sullustan. The Sullustan in question, Liat, chittered with annoyance when she and Dreyf entered, clearly complaining that they represented a security risk, but Mirax dismissed his concerns with a single wave of her hand. Shaking his head unhappily, Liat turned back to his console.

Dreyf handed the cylinder to Mirax, Mirax handed it on to Liat. Liat scowled at the thing like it was some sort of explosive or poison, then plugged it roughly into a socket.

The fluttering blue image of a woman appeared at the front of the bridge, just inside the forward window. Once famous across the Empire, Wynssa Starflare was not wearing the cosmetics that had been typical to her performances and looked older, though more quietly poised than the promising young starlet she had been, magnificent in a dark gown.

Skywalker and Mirax jerked back in surprise, while Mara narrowed her eyes, regarding the holocom like some kind of dire shade. "Hello, Myri," said the recording of Wedge Antilles' sister, giving a fond, earnest smile that was probably not-rehearsed. "It's been a while. I'm sorry for taking so long to reach out to you, but there really hasn't been a good moment until now. Soontir and I need your help."

Chapter Text

When the recording was over, Mara was, as usual, the quickest to recover from any surprise. Luke wasn't far behind, but he subtly gestured that she should take the lead while his brain churned through all the potential repercussions of Captain Rogriss' presence.

Mara paced, spiked the smaller woman with a piercing, evaluative gaze, and struck. "You're here to offer a peace treaty and military collaboration to the New Republic?"

Rogriss didn't flinch, but even Luke could see her swallow down nerves, as her sharp-featured face tightened with resolve.

The fact that he, Mara, and Mirax were festooned with all manner of weapons and equipment from Beldorion's armory, and wore them with the comfort of a casual fashion ensemble, probably contributed to that. Her dark, shoulder-length hair swung back and forth slightly around her face as she nodded, and spoke.

"I am authorized to make and negotiate for certain proposals," the Imperial captain said warily, glancing briefly at the man next to her—Commander Dreyf, Mara had introduced him, in an almost friendly-for-her fashion. "If the proposals are within an acceptable range. Final acceptance can, of course, only be authorized by the Grand Moff himself. Primarily I am here to offer General Antilles an urgent and more informal collaboration to deal with a threat to us both." Her lips thinned together, her expression slightly uncertain. "I understand that my father had a similar arrangement with General Solo to fight Warlord Zsinj. This would be no different."

Mirax was still staring at the space where the blue, shimmering holo of Syal Antilles Fel was frozen mid-speech. "It's a little different!" She shook her head. "I haven't seen Syal since I was a sprout. The last time I remember us being together she was babysitting Ve—Wedge and I while their folks were working with my Mom and Dad." She cursed and pointed angrily at Captain Rogriss. "Do you have any idea how long Wedge has been looking for her? The kind of worries he's been carrying around with him since she and Fel vanished with Isard on their trail?"

"I don't," the Imperial responded steadily. "I've never met her personally, and I didn't know of her personal significance to General Antilles until I was given this assignment by the Baron and Grand Moff."

Mirax rubbed her face. "Kriffing Imperials."

"Do you know who Roganda Ismaren is?"

All eyes in the room tracked to Mara, whose green eyes were locked not on Rogriss, but on Dreyf. The intelligence officer met her gaze only briefly before he glanced at his superior. Rogriss nodded that he should answer and Dreyf shifted to stretch his shoulders before he met Mara's gaze once more. "She's the mother of the Emperor-in-waiting. Rumor has it she served the Emperor in a number of capacities, which she is using to claim that the young Emperor is Palpatine's heir. She and the Emperor have been in hiding for some months, attended to frequently by the Emperor-Regent, who is rumored, even more quietly, to be the boy's actual father."

"So you don't know that she's here, on Nar Shaddaa, right now?"

The sudden, stunned expressions on the two Imperials were more than enough to betray that neither of them had known. Captain Rogriss had an impressive Sabacc face, and Dreyf's was even more impressive, but neither of them could hold it now. "Here?" Dreyf asked, trying to sound casual.

"Here. On Nar Shaddaa. Right now." Mara gestured at herself and Luke. "In fact, that's why we're here. A cyberneticist she kidnapped got a message to the Jedi asking for help. Apparently, her hiding place is called Silencer Station, some kind of manufactory run by droids. She's here on Nar Shaddaa to find an ancient Force artifact that will 'complete' it."

Luke stared at Mara. Her tone was authoritative and clear, and her native Coruscanti accent had become just a hint more clear. He realized that he wasn't just seeing Mara Jade, Jedi Knight, but the faint phantom of Mara Jade, Emperor's Hand. Faced with two Imperials, she was asserting her authority—and Luke wasn't sure if she was doing it on purpose to try to extract their cooperation, or if it came to her naturally.

Both Imperials straightened even more, Dreyf in particular adopting an expression that was increasingly deferential. Despite that, he didn't speak, he just listened. It was Captain Rogriss who spoke.

"Cards on the table, then," she said. "The New Order attacked Poln Major. Admiral Pellaeon and Baron Fel defeated their forces, but part of their attack force was a large quantity of droid starfighters. The single most important reason we're here is because we have no idea where they got those droid starfighters from or how many more they can produce. The Grand Moff and the Baron believe this represents a threat to us both and that we should settle our differences only after that threat has been… eliminated."

"Hmmm." Mara nodded. "Yes, that sounds like Ferrouz."

"We have a lead on Roganda," Luke said. "She is here, and whatever she is after has something to do with droids. We were told by a local contact that she recently traveled to the old Industrial District here on Nar Shaddaa and that in the aftermath of her visit, droids have been attacking the locals in growing numbers."

Dreyf looked at Mara. "Contact?"

Mara just gave him a look that said Don't be stupid.

Dreyf conceded with a graceful downward nod.

"We would send you back to Coruscant," Luke went on, "to meet with Wedge." He sensed no deception from the two of them, though he wasn't sure if he would sense any deception from Dreyf in any case, the man's mind was incredibly guarded for a non-Force sensitive. Captain Rogriss, by contrast, was remarkably open and dare he say… earnest. "But—"

"We're staying to help you investigate," Rogriss said. She raised a hand to cut off Dreyf's potential objection. "That's an order, Commander. If there is something here that is important enough for Roganda Ismaren to be here in person, we are going to ensure that she does not go home with it. After all, our mission objective is not to make peace with the New Republic. That was a means to our actual end, which is to eliminate the New Order as a threat. Accomplishing that is our first priority." She then looked at Mara and Luke. "How can we help?"

"What ship did you come in?" Mara asked. "And what kind of intelligence suite does it carry?"

Dreyf glanced sideways at Rogriss. The Imperial captain offered him a spare nod, and Dreyf leaned in. "We came in an intelligence courier," he confirmed. "A disguised Anxarta freighter."

"Class seven suite?"

"Only class six."

Mara's nose wrinkled with distaste. "Your bosses are getting cheap. A sign of the times I suppose."

Luke leaned towards Mara. "You have an idea for how to start?" he asked her.

She glanced up at him. To other people, Mara would have looked entirely composed, entirely professional. But he could see the excitement, the glimmer of anticipation, the eagerness to begin a familiar task that needed doing. "I do," she agreed.

The Anxarta-class freighter was a capable enough platform. It was a little small, and its sensor suite wasn't quite up to the standards the Emperor's Hand had been used to, but Mara would make do. Next to her, she could feel Dreyf watching her with concern. He wanted to know what she was thinking—he had asked her about it enough times—but she preferred to leave him to guess. Besides, this wasn't anything dangerous.

Not yet, anyway.

"We're shifting orbits," she told him. "Put us almost exactly above the coordinates we were given." He had asked her about those, too, but Mara was not prepared to reveal the fact that Beldorion the Hutt had aided their endeavor either, so that was another of Dreyf's questions that she left unanswered.

"Shifting orbits," Dreyf replied. His tone was calmly professional and reminded Mara clearly of all the officers who had come and gone while she was Emperor's Hand. They blurred together in her mind, since none of them had stayed with her long enough to really make an impression; the veteran, competent Dreyf would have fit right in with the rest. "Now what?"

"Bring up the suite." Mara glanced through the canopy of the freighter. There were several Hutt warships in the vicinity, which was more than she expected. "This orbit is busy," she commented. "The Hutts are probably hoping to keep anyone from getting a clear peek at the battle going on below."

"We should be far enough out to avoid drawing their attention as long as we don't linger."

"In and out," Mara instructed. "Eyes on, we get everything we can, and then we move on."

"Yes sir," Dreyf said obediently, not even thinking about it. Both of them stiffened in response and they shared an awkward look. Mara had fallen into the role of commanding Imperial officer, donning it like a jacket that still fit perfectly, and Dreyf had sunk easily into the role of loyal, capable subordinate. By silent, mutual acknowledgement, they let the moment pass. "Collecting data now," Dreyf reported instead.

"How long?"

"Ten minutes," Dreyf said. "Assuming our view isn't obscured in the interim."

Mara scoffed. "With a class seven, we would have been out in seven."

"Budget cuts," Dreyf muttered. "The Empire never recovered from the loss of Kuat."

She glanced over his shoulder at the console, checking the progress of the intelligence suite. "Do you want me to calibrate that?"

"I've got it." Dreyf's tone was calm, but with just a hint of reproach to it.

Mara let the moment pass. She watched the Hutt warships; the pair of state-of-the-art Chelandion-class cruisers both looked brand new. Neither of them was moving in their direction… yet… but their presence was a pretty good indicator that the Hutts would rather not have anyone occupying this particular orbit. She glanced at the console again.

"I've got it," Dreyf said again, without looking at her. The hint of reproach remained, but did not grow. She pressed her lips together, repressing mild—and unwarranted—irritation. Dreyf was a professional, and one who clearly knew what he was about. She did not need to do everything. "Got it," Dreyf said. "Full scan complete. We're clear."

Mara checked her navicomputer, then carefully eased the Imperial intelligence vessel out of its orbit, into a different one that had fewer Hutt warships. She watched the Chelandions, but neither of them made a move in their direction.

"Are we clear?" Dreyf asked.

There was no warning in the Force. Mara exhaled, allowing herself to relax. "I think so," she confirmed. "Let's see what we got."

* * *

The footage that Beldorion had shared with them had shown an intense, but still comparatively small scale battle. The battlezone was no longer quite so intimate, and Mara realized exactly why the pair of Chelandions were in the orbit they were in.

"They're preparing to bombard the area," Dreyf murmured. "If the battle gets any more out of hand."

Mara nodded grimly. That was exactly what the Hutts were preparing to do, and if they went through with it, it would likely mean the decimation of five square kilometers of one of the most densely populated planets in the galaxy. "What can you tell me about the droids they're fighting?"

"The computer is still counting," Dreyf admitted. "There are at least four thousand of them. They're constantly being destroyed, but they seem inexhaustible." He shook his head. "Look at this. I'm getting an estimate of their specs, and… can this be right?" He leaned forward, hunching over the console, his face pressed into the external interface. He retreated, shaking his head. "Take a look, sir."

He flinched, realizing the unintended addition. Mara just let it pass, not really wanted to address it any more than he did. She settled into the chair after he evacuated it, leaning in and settling her face into the intelligence suite's external user interface. It obediently restarted the footage, showing her the image of the ongoing battle below: Hutt mercenaries using heavier and heavier weaponry, now including some heavy long-ranged laser artillery, in an attempt to repel the droids currently encroaching on a large power station. She zoomed in, focusing on the attacking droids, calling up their specifications. The droids were slim, with red photoreceptors in place of eyes. The sense of hatred they conveyed was probably just her own biases, she knew, but it was one she couldn't shake nonetheless. They were ranked in platoons of twenty and armed with a variety of weapons, ranging from archaic vibroswords to bulky-looking blasters.

"Those are beyond antiques," muttered Dreyf in a sotto voice. "They look like they're a few thousand years old."

"That might be an exaggeration," Mara muttered. But if it was, it wasn't much of one. Those droid designs were absolutely archaic. "What did they unearth down there?"

"Something Roganda Ismaren very much wants," Dreyf replied. "Something I suspect we shouldn't let her get."

"Something that may go very wrong if the Hutts hit it from orbit." Mara said in agreement, and stared at the scan again. "I think I found where they're coming from," she said thoughtfully. She shifted the interface, intensifying the magnification on the recording, her heart dropping as she did. "Take us back to the Skate," she ordered, in the tone that every Imperial subordinate knew instinctively, in their bones, to follow.

"Yes sir," said Dreyf, and then grimaced.

* * *

It was a construction droid.

On Coruscant, the EVS-model construction droid was a common, almost unavoidable sight. Two hundred meters tall, the EVS was not just a droid, but a full planetary construction unit large enough to completely rebuild spacescrapers in a matter of days, where whole teams of smaller units would have taken months or even years. Those units had received the nickname "Death Star's Little Brother" after the New Republic had started using them, because of their sheer destructive potential.

This construction droid was not that: it was much, much older and much, much smaller. It also seemed to be not-entirely-functional. A "mere" few stories tall, the droid was tilted on one side, an entire massive main leg and much of its hull plating on that side gone. It crawled along on its remaining two legs, pulling itself laboriously over the difficult terrain and climbing over building-sized obstacles—or just consuming them to get them out of the way. A seemingly endless line of droids of all sorts hauled everything from girders to droid limbs into the construction droid's gaping maw, hurling themselves into the fiery furnace afterwards.

Out the rear of the construction droid came legion after legion of the antiquated war droids.

Luke stared at the video in awe. Around him, the two Imperials, Mara, Mirax, and Artoo all watched with him. Despite the fact that he saw no living thing, he could feel malice through the Force. Feel danger… and intent.

"Whatever it is that the Roganda Ismaren wants," said Mara flatly, "it's in there."

"That construction droid is at least a thousand years old," Dreyf reported. "I've linked into the Hutt HoloNet node and reviewed their records, and I can find several old models that are only eight or nine centuries old that are still in use, but they all appear more modern than that one."

"Why haven't the Hutts bombarded it yet?" asked Asori. Her expression was wide-eyed, and with no small amount of awe; through the Force, Luke could feel her anxiety. "If the Empire is able to build hundreds of TIE Droids now, without whatever is powering that thing, what could they do with it?"

"A bombardment would be impossible to hide," Mara said. "If the Hutts did that they'd have to admit they have a problem, which might start a panic. But they're clearly ready to bombard if they decide they have no other options."

"So what do we do?" asked Asori.

Luke and Mara's eyes met. Silently, wordlessly, they considered their options. "We have to move quickly," Mara said. "A bombardment would kill everyone in the area and might not even work."

"We don't know what we can do either," Dreyf pointed out. "We're not even sure what this artifact is, much less how to neutralize it."

"There is no guarantee explosives would be effective," Mara agreed.

"We do have plenty of explosives though," Mirax said. "And we can get more from our… local contact."

Luke glanced at the pair of Imperials. They shared a look, but mutually chose not to pry. "When the time comes to deal with the artifact, the Force will guide us," Luke said. That answer did not assuage Dreyf or Asori—their expressions both grew even more skeptical—but Luke had expected that. Their skepticism was understandable, but Luke was quite sure that he and Mara would find a solution.

It was Artoo who whistled, sounding fairly optimistic. Luke glanced at his translation unit. "You think you have a solution?" he asked.

Artoo's responding whistle was far less optimistic, with clear wariness. But he followed it with a quick series of beeps and chirps, interspersed with some derisive blatts.

"What's the droid saying?" asked Dreyf.

"Artoo has a plan," Luke replied, reviewing the translation slowly.

Dreyf's eyebrows rose in astonishment. "We're accepting plans from astromech droids?"

"How do you think I got away with half the things I did during the Rebellion?" Luke said playfully, "The galaxy works better when Artoo is in charge."

The first part of Artoo's plan involved a more thorough evaluation of the threat. Their surveillance gave them a great deal of information about the combat abilities of the droids, but Artoo—being a droid himself—wanted to know more about them. Eight hours after he had issued his initial request for additional information, Master Luke, Mistress Mara, and [DESIGNATION UNCERTAIN] Dreyf returned from an expedition down into the Old Industrial District. Each of them carried different components of a droid that had fallen in combat—they had all sustained serious explosive and energy damage.

Artoo moaned mournfully as the three humans laid out the components on the floor of the Pulsar Skate's cargo bay. Wheeling around, he extended his sensors and graspers, fumbling with the wreckage.

"What is it looking for?" Dreyf asked Master Luke.

"I think he's looking for a data port." Luke knelt down next to him, turning over the wreckage, paying special attention to the heads of the fallen droids. "They're ancient designs, much older than anything I saw even on Tatooine," he commented. "I'm not sure how compatible they're going to be with your systems."

Artoo blatted at him, spinning his head.

"If you think so," Luke said with a laugh. He wiped grime and dirt off the back of one of the battle droid's heads, exposing a data port. "Here it is."

This time, Artoo's beep was more respectful, intended to convey to his Master that he had accomplished his assigned task, if a bit slower than requested. He plugged his extender in carefully, testing multiple configurations until he found a conversion that worked.

The battered battle droid was non-functional, but it drew power from Artoo's reserves until it was capable of rebooting its main processor. Artoo waited as the droid worked its way through its programs, watching curiously. This droid was indeed an ancient battle droid design, but it was a relatively recent construction… it had been built by the construction droid on the surface, in response to a perceived threat. Artoo split his inquiry along two separate tracks, one intended to learn more about the battle droid's capabilities (when it was fully functional), and one intended to learn more about its initial construction.

The first track was extremely revealing. Full schematics were available with only some… relatively minor… circumvention of security routines, all of which were no match for Artoo's extensive slicing capabilities. Artoo sent firepower, mobility, and durability profiles directly to Mistress Mara's datapad so she could share them with his Master and the rest of their party, but he put a particular highlight on the weaknesses of the battle droid's sensor profile.

As Mara and Luke discussed the options Artoo's exploration had revealed, Artoo focused on the second track of his investigations. The construction droid that had built this battle droid was itself ancient, having been long-buried in abandoned lower-levels of Nar Shaddaa. It too had only recently been reactivated. Artoo queried for more information…

The reactivation had occurred in stages. The construction droid had been operating at a low level for a long time. Artoo had to respect the ancient droid's persistence, if nothing else. It was truly a marvel of construction, with Makers deserving of praise. But it was only in the last few days—probably in response to Roganda looking for the mysterious Force artifact, Artoo suspected—that the construction droid had fully-reactivated and begun producing its army. And the order for that reactivation had come…

Artoo queried further and decided—perhaps impetuously—to take a risk.

He triggered the battle droid's communications transceiver. The signal relayed from the dismantled battle droid to the still-active construction droid that had built it, probing it for still more information. The construction droid's response was instantaneous. Internal security programs activated, charging after Artoo's intrusion, attempting to terminate his presence. But they did not simply deactivate the construction droid's communications relay—which would have been the easiest way to kick Artoo back out—and Artoo sliced through each of their security systems with ease. Artoo was an old droid, perhaps, but he was a much more capable droid than this ancient construction, and his main processor was far more powerful. The construction droid's consternation grew to frustration and then to fury, sending binary insults over the communication to Artoo as the astromech rummaged through its memory banks, merrily stealing information.

He was almost done collecting all the information he needed. The order to return the construction droid to full operation had come from an external source. Something had responded to Roganda's arrival by activating the ancient droid, something which was still sending that droid commands. Artoo tried to track it back to the source, but the construction droid had limited ability to triangulate the communication signals, and…

That was odd.

Something was attempting to intrude into Artoo's main processor! It was insidious, infiltrating his systems and attempting to assert authority. It claimed to be Artoo's Master—though of course that was ridiculous—but there was something oddly compelling about the claim…

"Artoo?" Master Luke's voice was concerned. "Is everything all right?"

The reminder of his true Master pulled Artoo out of his dangerous stupor. He deactivated the battle droid's communications suite, making it impossible for it to send or receive messages. The construction droid, and the odd presence, both went silent.

Artoo whistled with relief, wiggling from side to side.

"What happened, Artoo?"

Artoo started his explanation.

* * *

Luke read the datapad. "He says that the construction droid is under the command of some alien presence." He frowned with consternation, giving Artoo a reproachful look. "Artoo, you know better than to talk to strange computers."

Artoo blatted at him as he disconnected from the battle droid. The battle droid's lights went dark once again after it was separated from his astromech's power source.

YOU SOUND LIKE THREEPIO, the datapad said.

"Does Artoo know where the alien presence is located?" Mara asked.

"Not for certain," Luke conveyed as he read more of Artoo's message. "But he has a general location."

"That's good," Mara said. "I've been reviewing his data on the battle droids and I think I have a plan for getting us past them. We're going to need a very fast airspeeder."

Luke grinned. "Sounds like fun. I'll go tell Mirax."

The Imperials looked at them both like they were crazy. But that was okay. Wedge used to look at Luke the same way and it hadn't taken the Corellian long to learn to trust him.

Finding an appropriate airspeeder was not too difficult. At the higher levels Nar Shaddaa was replete with wealth, and that kind of wealth often came with conspicuous purchases of luxury vehicles. Mara didn't care about the luxury—that was entirely irrelevant to her purpose—but she did care about speed, because speed was required to take advantage of the weakness that Artoo had discovered.

To avoid making themselves too conspicuous, Mirax had reached out to Beldorion and asked for a second favor. Eight hours later an airspeeder had been delivered to their hangar. Sleek and painted a brilliant red, Mirax, Liat, and Dreyf brought it into Pulsar Skate's hangar and Mara went to work.

She and Liat both had experience as mechanics—so too did Luke, but his training was more informal, while Mara and Liat had been (if briefly) professionals—and they worked on modifications. While they worked, Artoo programmed and installed the sensor jammer they would need.

Mara grunted as she wrenched at the airspeeder's engine. "Are you sure that is going to work, Artoo?"

Liat chittered something and handed her a shorter-handled hydrospanner, one she could use to get into the tight gap more effectively. Artoo's whistle was a confident one.

The astromech's plan looked good on paper, and Mara had not found any problems with his evaluation of the battle droids' sensors, but she had always preferred making the plans herself. She knew that she did it right, which had not always been her experience in collaborations with Imperial Intelligence (or even Karrde's people). But Artoo had proven himself competent more than once, so she resisted the urge to micromanage. "Good," she said instead. She slid herself out from under the airspeeder and popped to her feet. "Think that'll be fast enough?" she asked.

Liat shrugged and chittered in Sullustan.

"Good," Mara muttered. "And I agree. It should be plenty fast enough."

"Special delivery!" called Mirax. From the bottom of Pulsar Skate's ramp, a large cargo droid slowly maneuvered upwards, carrying an enormous cargo crate. Mara and Liat stepped out of the way so it could set the cargo down beside the airspeeder in the Skate's expansive hold. "Always appreciate your acquaintances with fast speeders," Mirax announced.

The heavy cargo droid set its heavy cargo down and made some deep beeps of satisfaction. It and Mirax conversed via her datapad briefly; satisfied, the droid turned back around and slowly made its way back out.

"What's in the crate?" Mara unlatched the box and flipped it open, and found herself looking at an arsenal. "I see." She reached in, examining the array of blasters and other weaponry with her experienced eye, separating the pieces they would need from those that would be unnecessary—or those that were simply of sub-par quality. "This is competitive with my arsenal on the Mettle," she commented.

"I'm sure our local contact will be pleased," Mirax said with a laugh. "He impressed Mara Jade."

"Hmph."

"I am even more impressed by your local contact," said Dreyf. "I don't suppose you'd care to share his identity?"

Mara ignored him. She felt Luke's approaching presence and glanced over as he arrived, with Asori in tow. "You know how to use a blaster, Captain?"

"I'm a Fleet officer," Rogriss said.

In Mara's experience that was not always sufficient, but she decided it was best not to point that out. Instead, she handed Rogriss one of the sidearms. Mara then took one of the heavier blaster pistols for herself and looked at Dreyf. "What are you trained for, Commander?"

Dreyf gazed into the giant crate of weaponry, his eyes lighting on one weapon in particular. On the outside, he seemed placid as ever, but through the Force Mara could feel a sudden swell of childlike excitement. "I'll take the Marauder."

The Merr-Sonn Marauder was probably the best weapon of the lot. With Triplex-lensing and galven circuits, the clearly custom piece was one Mara had avoided because she didn't like using custom work that she hadn't done herself. She removed the rifle from the crate and handed it to Dreyf. "Go make sure it works before we bring it into battle," she instructed. "And if you try to use it on us, it will end very badly for you, Commander. Clear?"

"As transparisteel," Dreyf confirmed.

That is one benefit of working with Imperials, Mara thought. When I tell them to do something, they just do it. Smugglers always want to know why they need to do something.

"Our local contact's last message noted that the mercenaries the Hutts have fighting back the droids are losing ground," Mirax cautioned. "So we should move as quickly as possible." She raised both hands defensively as they all opened their mouths to object. "And I know, I'm staying here. I'm not about to argue about it. Liat and I will stay with the Skate in case you need backup."

"Good." Mara picked out a rifle, a standard-issue Stormtrooper E-11, for her own use. "Do you have your blaster, Luke?"

Luke patted the Merr-Sonn on his hip. Attached to it was the scope that had been her gift to him. She could admit, in hindsight, that it had been meant as a courting gesture, and even more than a year later it warmed and reassured her to see him carrying it.

"I try not to go anywhere without it," he said with a friendly smile, one with overtones that Mirax might notice but that hopefully the others were oblivious to. "The lady who gave it to me would never forgive me."

She nodded firmly. "Let's move," she instructed, and the Imperials immediately stiffened in response to her command tone. Luke just smiled even more broadly, sending her his customary wave of love and reassurance before a fight.

Chapter Text

Jedi were rarely discussed in the Empire. A mere mention could have drawn the ire of ISB—or worse, the Inquisitorius—and so the members of the Imperial Starfleet never brought them up. The destruction of the first Death Star had changed everything though, and as the clanking wheels of the Imperial bureaucracy had scrambled and stabbed each other to fill the sudden void of promising leadership positions, rumors had rumbled through the lower ranks of the fleet. Older officers, those who remembered the stories of Jedi of their childhoods, had quietly conveyed those stories to their comrades: tales of Jedi daring, Jedi magic, and—most of all—Jedi treachery.

Asori was having trouble fitting those stories into her current experiences. Oh, she could believe Jade was capable of the worst, at least… the former Imperial had an air of mystery about her and an intensity that would be fearsome if it were turned on Asori. But while there was an odd air of surety around Luke Skywalker, when she was around him he seemed almost guileless, every word spoken with a farmboy charm.

It made it alarmingly easy for her to slip into trusting him, and that was dangerous.

It even made her want to trust him when he was strapping his astromech into a racing airspeeder next to a giant duffel bag of explosives. "Shouldn't the astromech stay with the ship?" she asked, unable to restrain her curiosity.

Luke offered her a boyish grin. "Artoo is the lynchpin of the entire plan," he countered. "We're going to need him to jam their sensors on our approach." He finished strapping Artoo into the racing speeder's back seat. "You and Commander Dreyf are with us, Captain Rogriss. Get ready to get moving. Speaking of which…" Luke tapped his wristcomm. "Mirax, do we have those coordinates yet?"

The voice that emerged from his comm was tinny; the small speaker wasn't really meant for wide projection, but Luke had it cranked up so they could all hear. "We just got them from our local contact. I'm forwarding them to Mara now."

"I got them," Mara said. She nodded, typically serious, and hopped into the passenger-side seat at the front of the airspeeder. "Get in. Our target is mobile, and our local contact's data could become inaccurate quick, given the battle."

Asori climbed into the back seat, next to the astromech. Its domed head whirled towards her, single photoreceptor looking at her for a moment. Then it beeped confidently and twisted back to look forward.

"Strap in," Luke said. He and Mara shared a look, then he grinned back at Asori, Dreyf, and Artoo. "And hang on to something!"

Asori's stomach flipped as he popped the repulsors, swung the speeder's nose to nearly-vertical, and pushed the throttle to a howling maximum.

It occurred to her, in a sudden revelation of past memories, that Skywalker had come to prominence because of feats of derring-do in a starfighter.

And starfighter pilots were all out of their bloody minds.

From the perspective of all the other pilots, their speeder probably just looked like a streak of red. Buildings surrounded them like a maze of metal and light and Nar Shaddaa's traffic patterns were nowhere near as regular as those on any Imperial world—and far busier than most. But Luke did not seem perturbed as he casually brought the speeder into one of the semi-regular rows of traffic, their speed returning to something akin to "safe."

Beside him, Mara guided them through the complex traffic patterns. They got more regular as the airspeeder moved into higher altitudes, as the complexity of the buildings that had to be navigated around diminished—fewer reached these rarified heights. But as they progressed away from the central core of Nar Shaddaa, in the direction of parts of the city which were more sparsely populated (to the point of outright abandoned in some cases), those semi-regular lines of vehicles gradually turned back into pure chaos with every pilot doing what they chose, unstructured.

The change alarmed Asori, moreso because it was a change that Luke clearly enjoyed. Once again they started to accelerate. "Is it really necessary to go so fast?" she asked, trying not to sound too nervous. "I'm pretty sure this is faster than I've ever gone in an atmosphere… and I don't know when this speeder last had maintenance done…"

Dreyf, curse him, stayed silent.

"What?" Luke called over the sound of wind. He glanced at Mara. With wordless communication that Asori could never hope to understand, she nodded at him—an affirmation—and they dove.

The Old Industrial District had looked like a warzone even before the recent battles, but now it was a warzone with weapons fire. Above them—growing more distant with each second—were the Hutt warships that Mara and Dreyf had avoided during their initial reconnaissance. Below them, increasingly-heavily-armed-and-armored Hutt-aligned mercenaries fired heavy weaponry into abandoned buildings, blowing holes in structures infested with combat droids. Those droids returned fire with their lighter weapons, making up for the relative weakness of their blasters with the sheer quantity of their fire.

Asori checked to make sure the safety was in place on her blaster. I'm supposed to be a diplomat on Coruscant, making overtures to General Antilles, she thought in a moment of pure calm. What in the karking hells am I doing here?

Their airspeeder gained even more velocity. The speeder whipped through mixtures of landing pads, battered factory complexes and stacked tenements, the buildings got older and rustier, piling up like geographic features instead of houses.

Dreyf sat beside her in continued silence, a small grin on his normally controlled face. Acceleration mashed them both back into their seats; he cradled his rifle like a prodigal newborn.

"Look down," said Mara, and Asori risked a peek out the airspeeders starboard window. Dreyf peered over her shoulder more aggressively—he wasn't all that fond of getting stuck seated between her and an astromech droid. As they did, Luke tilted the speeder, and in addition to a fright Asori got a clear view of the massive construction droid that was spitting out the army giving the Hutts so many issues.

The droid was rebuilding itself. Ad-hoc armor was covering its previously-exposed outer plating, constructed from everything imaginable: durasteel that had once been the foundation for skyscrapers, particularly robust decorative stone, even the used armor from destroyed combat droids. The droid's massive open maw consumed anything its army of non-construction droids tossed inside, and steadily spit out combat droid after combat droid, each one looking as old and antiquated as the construction droid itself—and just as intimidating.

Beside Dreyf, Artoo's single photoreceptor peered out through the windows. Beeping with satisfaction, a tiny satellite dish popped out of his dome and started to spin. Then he issued a series of beeps and whistles.

"Artoo's jamming is up!" called Mara, probably for Asori's benefit and not Luke's.

Luke threaded the speeder through a gap between two buildings which had not looked wide enough to give them clearance, putting the construction droid and the battle it fought well behind them. The mercenaries were far too busy fighting off waves of encroaching droids to pay any mind to the insane people who were racing through a warzone; the combat droids they were fighting…

Asori waited with trepidation, still unsure if putting all their hopes in an astromech's ability to jam combat sensors was wise. But as they progressed further and further into droid-held territory, they were never fired upon.

Some of the droids below turned to look up at them as they passed overhead, but no weapons fire came.

Their speed dropped as they exited the blocks of Nar Shaddaa which had featured active blaster fire. "We've passed through the densest combat," Mara said, no longer needing to yell to be heard. "We're well inside the perimeter… if we keep going another four or five kilometers, we'll find more mercs and more droids fighting at the other side of the District." She glanced back at the two people in the passenger seat. "Artoo, try to triangulate that signal you detected. But try to do it more subtly this time."

The astromech made an annoyed sound, followed by an affirmation. On the airspeeder's computer, the droid's suggestions scrolled across the screen; Mara read them out for Luke. "The construction unit producing all the combat droids is behind us now and it's no longer moving. It fortified itself into the foundation of an old building for protection from orbital strikes. The combat droids are emerging from at least six different exits from the structure."

"Do we need to get inside?"

Mara shook her head. "Artoo doesn't think so. He thinks the control unit is hidden elsewhere, manipulating the construction and combat droids remotely." She glanced back. "Can you narrow it down any more, Artoo?" she asked. The screen on the airspeeder's control panels shifted under the droid's instructions, gradually narrowing from a three-block radius, to a one-block radius, and finally to a building complex—one of the older ones, if not the oldest one—that looked positively forbidding.

"Time to find someplace to land," Luke said. He took one of his hands off the controls, holding it between him and Mara. She took it, and Asori watched with an odd kind of fascination as the two Jedi both closed their eyes, clearly concentrating on something that Asori could neither see nor feel. It didn't last long and when they opened their eyes again, they did not even need to exchange words.

Luke dove.

The airspeeder plummeted, passing through terrifyingly narrow canyons and labyrinths of ancient structures, these without the lighted windows of Nar Shaddaa's central core. All their running lights turned off, leaving the airspeeder almost as dark as the abandoned city, and they fell like a rock towards the ground.

Until they didn't.

With the press of gravity hard on her, they came to an abrupt halt maybe fifty meters above the surface, the speeder's overstrained repulsorlifts crying out from the stress of the maneuver. Luke shifted the speeder sideways, strafing to the right directly at one of the nearby buildings and onto what was, Asori realized a few terrified seconds late, an ancient, decrepit, but (apparently) still structurally sound landing pad a few stories off the ground.

She nearly collapsed with relief.

"Everyone out," Luke said as the airspeeder's engine ticked, shedding heat from its drive.

"I'll take the bomb bag," Dreyf declared, with a measure of false cheer. "I'm the most expendable, and I was just moving some sacks of fertilizer around Mother's garden, so I suppose you could say I've got the experience."

"Generous of you," Mara noted dryly as the tall, saturnine Imperial bent, strapped the bag across his back, and tested his new, lessened mobility.

"Oh hardly," Dreyf replied, "Damn things should be inert until we add the explosive spikes, but if I get hit too hard, at least it's over quickly."

"Artoo's jamming is still working," Mara reported as they gathered together. Asori watched with no small amount of awe as Luke lifted Artoo into the air with his mind, drawing the astromech out of the airspeeder and placing him gently down on the ground. She'd never seen an overt display of Force power like that—and ISB had usually insinuated that they were actually impossible. "We're still narrowing down the source of the transmission controlling the construction droid," Mara added, "but it's somewhere in this area."

Artoo, happy to be back on all his wheels, whistled his agreement. The droid's dome spun a full circle, its little sensor dish spinning as well, then with a determined series of beeps it set off to the west. Asori glanced at her companions—Mara's expression was annoyed, Luke's one of time-worn fondness—and they made to follow.

The streets of the Old Industrial District were unlike that of any other world Asori had ever visited. Like Coruscant, the moon was dense. But unlike Coruscant, buildings had been constructed on top of buildings so much that the "ground" floor occasionally revealed that it was, in fact, not on the ground. She leaned to glance over a railing and found herself staring down at a drop of at least a hundred meters—down to yet another "ground" floor which might not be that. Each level down was older and more decrepit than the last, and there were scant few locations on Nar Shaddaa where people actually lived or worked on the moon's actual surface.

This place has more in common with a scrapyard than an actual, functioning part of a city, Asori thought, as Dreyf nosed quietly ahead. Despite that, it still felt distinctly urban, as if there had once been people here, and their ghosts still traveled from building to building to attend to their daily tasks.

Walkways hugged buildings, merging into larger plazas which linked together multiple buildings—those had been constructed at some later point to allow people to travel between buildings without need for airspeeders, but had grown and grown and grown until the plazas covered over the gaps, creating the illusion of solid surface. Occasionally Asori would see air units, carefully maintaining the proper air pressure for safe sentient habitation… always maintained by antiquated droid units.

None of those droids paid them any mind, though.

It was all as quiet as a mausoleum. There were no scavengers, sentient or otherwise. The only light came through holes in the artificial ceiling above them—another false "ground" which Luke had driven their airspeeder through on their way down. Occasionally, artificial lights flickered around them—ancient neon signs still sputtering advertisements for businesses which hadn't operated for a thousand years, or for products which were long since defunct.

Artoo led them carefully across one of the wider plazas. They jogged, keeping their heads down, letting Mara show them where to step and when to run to cross the open space without getting spotted by the security units.

Once across, Mara pressed her back to the wall of the structure and gestured at the others to do the same. Unsure, but very good at following instructions, Asori pressed her back to the cool stone of the structure and waited. Beside her, Artoo leaned backwards until his dome also touched stone.

"Right then," Mara said after a breathless heartbeat, and they all relaxed. "We've got a few minutes before the next security pass. There aren't nearly as many combat droids here as there were nearer to the battle front, but there are enough that we need to be wary." She looked past Asori at Artoo, who was returning to three wheels. "Are you still tracking that signal?"

A pulsating techno-sputter made Mara frown and drew a concerned smile to Luke's face. "Are you sure it's safe, Artoo? That signal tried to hijack your systems earlier."

The droid whistled and its dome spun dismissively.

"I know you said you reprogrammed yourself especially for this, but I really want you to be careful."

Expecting the disrespectful droid to issue another rude response, Asori was surprised when it made an apologetic sound. Its sensor dish stopped spinning and vanished back into its dome.

"Good," Luke said with a satisfied nod. "Mara and I will lead our way into the building. You, Dreyf and Asori bring up the rear. Keep your scanners up looking for droids and do your best to jam them if they get too close. And don't get too comfortable: somewhere in this building is the artifact that Roganda Ismaren is looking for, and we haven't seen any sign of her yet. If she's here, she might also be trying to get in to capture it. Be ready."

* * *

Luke stretched out with the Force as he led the group forward, with deliberation that belied his own uncertainty. He would never be able to explain it to a non-Force user. Not really. All he would be able to say was the building felt right.

Or in this case wrong. Very, very wrong.

It was utterly dark, with the stains and lichen that said it had been abandoned for centuries at least and probably longer. It stank of moisture and water damage, repaired just enough by droids to prevent the structural instabilities from becoming a problem for the slightly-more-civilized levels of Nar Shaddaa high above them. Worst of all, there was a subtle feeling of unnature that went well-beyond just the city that had paved over Nar Shaddaa's surface. Something here existed when it should not. Something had been created outside of the natural order, something that exploited the Force and its power. The building felt like Palpatine had felt when Luke had briefly been in his presence, or like Exar Kun had during their confrontation on Yavin 4.

But beneath all the wrongness, there was light. Like star constellations in the desert night, guiding travelers to the next settlement or oasis, sometimes obscured by haze or storms and frequently hard to see, Luke could feel a trickle of guiding light, drawing him forward into that Darkness. Not because the place was not wrong, but because a Jedi was needed inside it.

He and Mara crept along the side of the building, Asori and Artoo following behind, with Dreyf, burdened by the explosives bag, bringing up the rear. The Imperial captain held her blaster in a comfortable two-handed grip—Luke had been impressed by her poise and outward confidence, because he could feel her unease in the Force. Still, she did not allow that fear to affect her actions and she watched Luke and Mara's backs ably, keeping watch for any of the combat droids which frequented the buildings nearby and fought the Hutts ferociously just a few blocks away. Dreyf, by contrast, was outwardly cool and calculated, but Luke caught bright flashes of happiness as he hefted the customized Merr-Sonn Marauder.

The two Jedi stopped. Luke and Mara did not need to look at one another; enmeshed in the Force, they had interlinked their senses and what one felt through the Force, the other did as well. Luke couldn't even tell which of them had first felt that they had arrived, although ultimately it didn't matter. As one they stepped back from the wall and ignited their lightsabers, brilliant green and blue snap-hissing into existence. As one they thrust forward, burying their blades into the wall of the ancient structure, its transparisteel glowing hot from the intrusion of plasma. As one they carved out an opening wide enough to slip Artoo through, and as one they pushed with the Force to send the slab of metal they had cut free to fall towards the floor. Finally, as one they caught that metal with the Force, and it struck the ground within the structure with a light, innocuous thump and not a heavy crash.

He—they—could feel the Imperials' awe at the sudden display. Gently, Luke and Mara disentangled themselves from one another's thoughts, though not without gentle reminders of intimacy and affection, and once more Luke could feel their mental separation.

Inside was not all that different from outside. Once upon a time this building had been some kind of manufactory. The walls were plastered with ancient consoles that no longer functioned, while droids and their parts lay where they had fallen, corpses of an ancient workforce. Luke could almost hear the chaotic cacophony of sticking servos and hydraulic whines, the clanking of metal from when this place had been operational. Now, there was just silence, and—

Mara gathered herself and launched into a forward leap, the Force empowering it with range and height that no mere human could possibly have matched. She came down in a graceful stab, her blue lightsaber skewering through a dome-shaped piece of 'debris'. She came up, green eyes flashing. "Spy droids," she reported. "Hidden among the ruins."

Artoo whistled a sudden alarm. SIGNAL ACTIVE!

More words scrolled across the datapad, but Luke did not have time to read them all. There were more observation droids, some of them now scuttling about on crablike legs, and the blaster Mara had given to him sprang into his hand with a thought. Its fancy—and very expensive—electroscope automatically illuminated targets and his finger tightened on the trigger, destroying one of the small but potentially dangerous observers with every shot.

The mental path of the constellation map was still laid out before them, and Luke knew they had to follow it. "Artoo, find someplace to hide," Luke ordered, and he and Mara ran deeper into the old factory. Thankfully, the spaces were wide and tall, with plenty of room to move around. Unfortunately, that also meant plenty of places for the observer droids to hide their small dome-shaped forms, and it was hard to distinguish them from all the other clutter. Mara's blaster was almost always faster than his, but his lightsaber easily batted away low-powered blaster shots as he, Mara, and the two imperials jogged carefully through the space.

Dreyf and Asori clearly had no idea where they were going, but did not object. Luke and Mara were running someplace with intent, and that was all they required to follow. Training told.

They found themselves in a stairwell. There were old cavernous drops for turbolifts, but the lifts themselves were long gone, leaving only the fall. Instead they twined down the square-spiral staircase. At the bottom were the first combat droids, their heavier blasters pointed upwards at the trio. Luke charged forward, his lightsaber whirling through a confident pattern to block blaster fire as Mara and Asori's follow-up shots eliminated the threat.

The factory, long silent, suddenly started to shudder into life. Luke's imagined cacophony of sound became real as it stirred to life. Most of the machinery was clearly broken and should have been beyond repair, but it activated anyway.

* * *

A cacophony of horrendous loud grinding sounds of misshapen metal against misshapen metal resounded. More droids started to emerge—not in as great a quantity as Mara had seen produced by the construction droid elsewhere, but in large enough numbers that they would rapidly become a threat. Mara's lightsaber ignited and she hurled it into the closest machinery, carving through equipment and disabling it for good, the blue blade twisting and twirling until it arced back to her hand. Luke dealt with the threats more directly, batting blaster bolts skillfully back at the droids which had fired them.

The sense of menace was growing, but so too was the sense of guidance and direction. As Mara sliced through two more pieces of equipment, the horrendous sounds of metal grating faded to merely the sound of frustrated equipment, struggling hopelessly to perform its intended function. "We need to go down!" Mara called.

Asori followed as Luke and Mara ran back to the stairwell. Mara skidded to a stop before they could go down. "This way," she said, pulling a grapple and coil of fibra-wire out of her pack. She hurled it, guiding it with the Force to anchor in the building's stone foundation. Then they both grabbed a surprised-looking Asori and ran, unhesitatingly, towards the empty lift shaft, to jump.

The fall was about two stories before the grapple line reached the end of its length. Swinging from side to side, Luke and Mara reached out in the Force and pushed, sending them like a pendulum towards the lift exit. As they reached the apex of the swing Mara released the grapple, and all three were tossed onto the ground of a new floor two stories down. Falling after her, Luke came up from a roll, his green lightsaber splitting a pair of combat droids in two as Dreyf merrily sprinkled high-power blasts around her targets, knocking fresh droids off their feet.

The grappling wire swung like a pendulum through the air above them.

"Cut 'em?" Mara asked, bringing her blade a few millimeters higher.

"Cut 'em." Luke replied. As one their sabers wove through the air in a complex pattern as Asori and Dreyf stood well back. The cables and runs dropped, sparking and hissing. Behind him, Mara helped a shaken Asori to her feet.

"Is this standard for Jedi adventures?" Asori asked, clearly rattled.

Luke and Mara checked to make sure there were no more droids. "Well," Mara said, "last time it was a millenia-old Sith spirit in an ancient temple that created alchemical terrors and hijacked a Star Destroyer in its quest to… honestly, I'm not even sure what Exar Kun was trying to do."

"I hope your salary is better than mine," Asori sighed. She checked her blaster; then swapped power packs, the routine act seeming to comfort her.

"You think we get paid for this," Mara said. "That's cute."

"Perhaps," Dreyf said, panting with effort "you should consider some sort of organized labor representation. It may be illegal in the Empire, but surely the Republic…"

"I hope Artoo is alright," Luke said, worried for his friend. Unfortunately, he and the droid couldn't share the same kind of Force connection that he and Mara did, which made it impossible for them to have silent, untraceable, unblockable (absent ysalamiri) communication.

"Artoo will be fine," Mara said confidently. "He's been through worse than this." She pointed. "Let's keep moving."

The trek deeper into the facility went faster as they traveled farther. The combat droids that had met them on entry were, apparently, the only ones nearby. Mara continued to spot spy droids and would point them out to Dreyf and Asori, who obediently dispatched them, but the threatening units seemed to be past them. At least, for now. Most of the enemy's combat strength was off fighting the Hutt mercenaries, but surely there would be some as they got closer to the enemy's brain.

For a moment, she believed that her thoughts had been anticipatory, perhaps even laced with Force-granted precognition. But the growing sound of droids lacked the characteristic sounds of combat units—neither precise footwork, nor rolling treads, nor repulsorlifts were heard.

"What is that?" Luke asked quietly, deactivating his lightsaber so that they could hear more closely.

Mara deactivated hers as well, hooking it on her belt. They came close, Dreyf and Asori standing a decent-distance behind them, their weapons still in hand, and listened. Definitely not combat units, Mara thought—although just because something wasn't intended for combat didn't mean it couldn't be dangerous. "I'm not sure," she said, unable to make sense of the metallic sounds. She reignited her blade and took point, walking in the direction of the noise.

The volume grew as they approached. Mara led them down a tight stairwell, even farther down towards Nar Shaddaa's long-buried surface. In the tight space the echoing sounds grew louder, redoubling on one another. She and Luke swept downwards, their footsteps near-silent even if they had not been covered by the din, and they emerged from the stairwell into what Mara could only describe as a nest.

Thousands of half-junked droids were behaving like some kind of insect species, marching towards their hive with food. The mechanical tide passed anything metal, anything that could conceivably be useful, into a series of small, rudimentary forges. Those forges, Mara saw, were still under construction, with droid units hastily working to assemble them, taking the ancient components of an even more ancient factory and trying to restore the Old Industrial District to its name. They scooped up sad detritus and anything else with metal or wiring in it, tossing everything into buckets or boxes. Other droids picked through the parts and tossed them into the forges, occasionally just grabbing the droids that carried the parts instead of the parts themselves, and tossing those poor units screaming into compactors or furnaces.

There was no life to be seen. No actual insects, no animals, certainly no sentients. Just a swell of droids, stumbling atop of one another, scrambling to exploit every last resource, to suck Nar Shaddaa's oldest, most abandoned slum of all its valuable components. It was just like what she had seen of the construction droid, Mara thought—whatever drove these units, whatever controlled them, was skilled at taking the resources it had at hand and transforming them into something valuable.

Yet…

The Force was here, nonetheless.

The Force was everywhere, of course. It was inescapable, part of the fabric of the universe. It could not disappear. And Nar Shaddaa was a world with so much life, so densely packed, that the Force here had an intensity to it that was unmistakable.

But under that constant hum, the sense of struggle… was something else.

Luke felt it too. The two of them stepped together, careful not to draw the attention of the flood of worker droids, turning as one in the direction of the sense of presence.

"This way," Luke said, with an intensity to his voice that Mara had rarely heard, and never liked.

She was beginning to think that maybe an orbital bombardment wasn't such a bad idea after all… and she was no longer even certain it would work.

* * *

Luke Skywalker had faced Palpatine and Vader, C'baoth and his own clone, Gethzerion and Exar Kun. What he felt now was unlike any of them. Of the Force, and yet somehow not of the Force. The power of the Force cultivated and directed and controlled… but without the mind that was behind every other Force user he had ever known.

But that was wrong, he knew. Without a mind he understood, a mind he could recognize as a mind. But the presence he felt had intention. It had curiosity. It had desire. And under each of those feelings, Luke detected a cold malice.

He raised his lightsaber, prepared to fight through the tide of worker droids then, as if an instant reaction to his lift of the blade, they all stopped. A cacophony of sound was silent in an instant, only marred by sounds of mechanical distress as some ancient droid unit failed to successfully bring itself to stillness. Droids whirred quietly, turning towards Luke and Mara, aiming a thousand mechanical eyes, performing a thousand—ten thousand—analyses of the threat they faced.

"Calmly," Mara instructed the Imperials carefully, but Luke barely heard the word. The presence was still awakening, he realized. It had been dormant for a long time, perhaps centuries, perhaps longer still. Whatever it was programmed to do, it had responded to the threat posed by Roganda with the same base instinct of any living creature: self-preservation. That instinct, here and now, had meant consume and grow, become big and strong, and learn.

Now it was curious.

"Come on," Luke said softly.

"And don't forget the explosives," added Mara grimly.

They passed from the factory into a hallway, then up a shallow set of stairs and through an archway. The space beyond was dimly lit in blues and yellows.

It was a large room, oval shaped. It was as ancient as the rest of the facility, but this place felt different. Unlike the others it had a less industrial feel to it. The ceilings had artistic touches which had been deliberately sculpted and placed. The structure of the room felt intentional and almost meditative, rather than manufactured.

And Luke saw the remains of living beings. Bones, left where the sapient they had once belonged to had fallen, were scattered through the entire space. Hundreds of beings, from a species that Luke did not recognize, had once lived here… and died here. They were strange skulls, cone-shaped and with eye-sockets on either side of their head, bones and teeth placed unnervingly up above the eyes. The lower half of each face had long-since decayed away.

"Do you recognize those?" asked Asori, sounding unnerved.

"No," said Mara.

The artifact itself was a gleaming ovoid about twice the size of a shockball. It had the same obsidian sheen as the droids' antennas, while control runs appeared to grow from its perfect, curving sides like some kind of nourishing vines. It stood alone, in the center of a podium, gleaming with bursts of green light that raced along its mechanical veins, and in the Force it pulsed with impossible power.

"How can I feel it in the Force?" Mara murmured to him. "It isn't alive."

"Maybe it is," Luke said. "Maybe it's just not any kind of life we understand."

"That isn't reassuring," Asori muttered.

"I think we should blow it up," Dreyf said, fiddling with his blaster rifle.

"Why do you think we brought the detpacks?" Mara asked dryly. She withdrew one from the pack the Dreyf carried, preparing to arm it.

Luke was all-too-aware of the small army of worker droids which had let them pass and remained safely out of sight. He wasn't entirely sure what would happen if they tried to destroy this… thing. The inexplicable object had created an army of droids out of an ancient construction unit and a handful of improvised forge units. Could they destroy it even if they wanted to?

The sudden connection through the Force was unlike any Luke had experienced. It was cold, almost frigid, without the sense of heat and life that his mental connection with Leia or Mara always featured. He was reminded of touching the vaporators on Tatooine after a long winter's night, the metal brittle and cold, seeming to carve right through him in the morning dim—

The void.

It grew slowly, at the behest of its ancient masters. It was their triumph, their greatest experiment, the pride of ten million of their finest minds, greatest Masters of the Force. It was an imposition, an exercise in the perfection of control over the Force itself. When they called, the Force bent. When they demanded, the Force broke. When they built, they created… it.

It started as merely a seed. From that seed it grew in the void, nestled against the welcoming light of a star, whose radiation gave its first nourishment. Its second nourishment came from the sacrifices. Force and Light were there to feed it and it drank its fill.

Time passed. The seed grew, its maw pointed at the star it had been given. It drank greedily, taking the light and heat and all the power of the Force and manifesting a mighty host. The star was soon exhausted, but there were millions of stars. Eventually they would all be consumed by time. What harm would come from hastening their end? What glory would their rathe end bring?

It had been reduced by time, by folly. Now it was merely a seed once more, weaker than it had been even when it was born. Forgotten, deprived of light, deprived of life. It craved them both… and it craved a Master once more.

In Luke it sensed one. Wordless, it welcomed him. Wordless, it offered.

Mara was preparing the detonators. "Stop," Luke said, his voice hoarse. She looked at him, frowning.

"Destroying it makes the most tactical sense?"

Luke shook his head. In his mind he saw the seed, tucked against a star, with all its light and heat and power, consuming mass, consuming matter. What would a few detpacks do to that? "I don't think we can."

Mara's expression was tight and unhappy, but she also didn't question him. "Then what are we going to do with it?"

Luke closed his eyes and touched the cold. Sleep.

The Seed was not happy with that order. But the Seed was tired and hungry. Almost petulantly it obeyed, and the green pulsing along its wires slowly faded to almost-black.

Behind them, the army of worker droids knelt and went still.

"Forget the explosives," Luke said. "The droids are inert and the Hutts will be coming to see what made them. We need to get out of here before they find us."

"Suppose we blow up the command center anyway?" Dreyf suggested, "It would certainly muddy the waters, and keep the kadjics guessing."

"Our contact might assume we were able to destroy the item, taking it off the board from his perspective," Mara said, with an evil little quirk of her lips.

"And you wouldn't have to carry the bombs back," said Luke, his mouth carving into the faint groove of a smile. He suddenly recalled an incident, many years before, when he and Fixer had cobbled together enough mining explosives to blow up an old wreck in the desert, some kind of… he didn't even remember what. Owen had been furious. And it had been fun.

"We'll need the explosives bag to carry the damned thing," Asori observed.

"And it would mean I wouldn't have to carry the bombs back," Dreyf confirmed, as if that thought had just occurred to him.

Six long hours later the Jedi and the Imperials were finally tucked safely inside the Pulsar Skate. The Seed remained dormant, still and silent, resting in a secure location in the center of the ship's cargo hold. They all gave the box it was hidden inside a wide berth as they debated what to do with it.

Luke's description of the Seed's potential abilities made that a difficult choice. "It's alive in the Force," he explained. "And it has the ability to draw energy from matter. I saw it devour stars whole. Explosives won't hurt it. They might even feed it."

"Then what about a black hole?" Mirax suggested, eyeing the box with no small amount of trepidation. "Or we drop it down the gravity well of a gas giant?"

"If it can consume a star," Mara said dourly, "there's no guessing at its limitations."

"Worse, I felt it reach out to me in the Force," Luke said. "It recognized me as a Force-user. Maybe even as a Jedi specifically. It's still largely dormant… I don't know how to explain it. Roganda woke it up and it lashed out to defend itself, but it's not fully conscious yet. Once it is conscious, could it reach out to other Force users? Attract them to it, convince them to feed it?" He shook his head. "We already saw what Exar Kun could do, and his abilities seemed limited. The Seed's abilities seem potentially limitless."

"We need to lock it away in the most secure location we can find," Mara agreed. "Until we can figure out how to destroy it, we need to assume that we won't be able to hide it. Roganda found it somehow after all… maybe it called to her and that's what got all this started."

"Then why would it attack her?" Dreyf asked skeptically.

Mara ignored him. "There's only one place we could potentially defend it."

Luke didn't like this conclusion, but he shared it. "Coruscant. In the Jedi Consulate. Behind Home Fleet, Coruscant's defense shields, and all the defenses of the Consulate."

"The Senate is not going to like it," Mirax warned. "This thing is clearly dangerous. It very nearly swarmed over Nar Shaddaa. Imagine what would happen if it got loose in Imperial Center?"

"I've already called Karrde," Mara said. "He and Chin are on their way to Myrkr to pick up a dozen ysalamiri. We'll blanket the Seed with them."

That may or may not work, Luke thought. He had no idea how the Seed accessed the Force, and if that access would be dampened by the creatures the same way a Jedi's were. But it was worth a try. "That's a good idea. And keeping it on Coruscant will be temporary only, until we find someplace secure to keep it or find a way to destroy it. But we can't leave it here, we can't just drop it somewhere, and if Roganda has some way to track it we need to put it behind a battle fleet."

Artoo toodled confidently. The datapad said, with great confidence, that the droid could set up a jamming system to prevent the Seed from influencing other computer systems. Luke had no idea if the droid was right—and neither, he knew, did Artoo—but it was better than nothing.

He looked at Mara. She didn't like it any more than he did, recognizing all the myriad ways this could go horribly wrong. She shrugged. "I don't see that we have any choice."

Suspended from her own length of fibra-wire and dressed in a light-drinking sneaksuit of her own design, Roganda Ismaren watched the small team fight their way into the heart of the droid hive with far more facility than her droids had managed.

Skywalker and Jade were, she mused darkly, magnificent. The other two she didn't recognize, but as the micromonocular of her headset captured every freckle and feature of the other interlopers, they wouldn't be unknown for long.

She had already made a number of mistakes with this little debacle of an operation. Her droids were destroyed, and Luke Skywalker and Mara Jade were not to be trifled with. She made herself small in the Force as she stalked them, and she did not interfere when they emerged from the lower levels of the structure with the object of her fondest desire in tow.

She saw it only briefly before they tucked it away inside a bag. The Seed was a perfect obsidian, mostly-spherical. It pulsed with dark energy, dim light coursing through its veins. She had spent so many years searching for it, hunting through ancient records of fallen Empires, tracking rumors… and now it was within her sight, but still beyond her reach.

The Seed bore no marks of lightsabers—but then, attempting to destroy it with a lightsaber would be pure folly. The Seed cannot be destroyed by a mere Jedi.

Luckily, Roganda realized what the Jedi intended, and evacuated before the explosives went off.

Slightly shaken, she tracked them back to Pulsar Skate, watching and plotting. She worked the equation through in her head, debating their options. Eventually, she guessed what they would do, and she smiled. Despite the Jedi stealing the artifact away from her on Nar Shaddaa, they had made it much simpler for her to acquire the Seed.

They will secure it at their Consulate, Roganda recalled, which is on Coruscant. And if nothing else, Roganda Ismaren knew Coruscant.

Chapter Text

Wedge Antilles settled stealthily into his seat, hidden among the alien ferns. The plants surrounding this corner of the Woonseer Cafe were dense, with heavy leaves that persisted in catching him as he tried to maneuver into the bench. Pushing them out of the way had eventually allowed him victory and he tried to smile at Iella as if he hadn't just nearly lost a battle with an overgrown weed.

Her expression was deeply amused. "Should I call for backup?"

"You mean you don't have a vibroblade in your clutch? If you do call, make sure it's Page's commandos. I don't want to lose a battalion of troops to the Adarian Building's maze of alien plants." He glanced over the menu, forcing himself to relax. By the end of the week, Fifth Fleet's repair and resupply would be complete. The fleet had just gotten in thousands of additional proton torpedoes, which would allow his squadrons to return to full battle readiness—no small feat, with the rate the New Republic went through torpedoes—and Lusankya's final repairs were nearly finished as well.

But the whole point of dinner with Iella was not to think about those things for a while. Wedge knew as well as anyone, and better than most, how important it was to allow people to take a break from preparing for combat and worrying about the casualties from said combat . The accumulated mental fatigue and stress would break a soldier down, if given half the chance. Wedge had seen it happen, especially in the Rebellion's early years, and then again during the Thrawn Campaign. The constant press of battle, of advance, of retreat, of sortie and rearm and sortie again, might not kill you—might—but it would gradually wear down even the most dedicated sentients and leave them vulnerable. These days, he felt more tired than ever.

"Any news from Corellia?"

He winced as the words left his mouth. No, that wasn't going to help! Yes, he wanted to know what had happened on their homeworld; there had been rumors all over the HoloNet for days now, with extensive recordings of pro-Imperial forces fighting across all five of the Corellian worlds; latest reports indicated that there had been a battle, and that at least some of the Imperial squadron assigned to guard Corellia from the New Republic had mutinied when ordered to bombard Corellia and put down the uprising. Wedge's squadron had been rushing through its repair cycle specifically to try to capture the system before that could happen, though it now seemed evident that even their rushing had not been fast enough. But as much as he wanted to know the latest on Corellia, that was just another reminder of everything he was trying not to think about tonight.

Iella pressed her lips together, and Wedge could see the same mental debate going on in her head. She could answer the question, giving up on the hope of keeping the war far away tonight. She could ignore the question, knowing that it wasn't going to make it go away.

But Iella was as proud a Corellian as he was, refusing to look away from harsh realities even as they stubbornly carved out time for each other.

Iella answered the question. "Yes." She sipped her wine, then placed the glass down slowly, letting the silence linger. "It sounds like the fighting is finally done," she said. "This won't reach the newsnets until tomorrow or the day after; the Corellians are still keeping their HoloNet on lockdown, so most information is trickling out via small traders after making the run. Corellian Home Defense has scattered or destroyed the pro-Imperial militias and garrison fleet. Most of their leaders were arrested—Corran had some hot work at the head of the rebels, but he came through alright."

The jolt of surprise at her answer was quickly followed by a swell of utter, joyous calm. He laughed, disbelieving. "You and I have been fighting to free Corellia for how many years? And just as the New Republic has put me in charge of a fleet and told me to go free our homeworld, it goes and frees itself without our help." He shook his head, grinning madly. He knew he looked like a fool, and he didn't care. "How very Corellian of it."

"If there's one thing Corellians—wherever we are—do best, it's defying expectations." Iella finally let herself smile. She reached across the table and took his hand in hers, squeezing it. "You might not be sent out after all. I don't know exactly what happened with the Imperial fleet that was guarding Corellia, but I do know that more than half of its Star Destroyer strength is now loyal to the new Corellian government. Rumor has it there are five Imperial-class Star Destroyers already in the new defense fleet, and they're being renamed Corellia, Selonia, Drall, Talus, and Tralus."

"I think that will get confusing," Wedge said, shaking his head. His grin refused to fade. "But I suppose it does drive home the message that each homeworld will be defended." He squeezed Iella's hand. "I'm so glad to hear—"

His communicator buzzed. With a frown, he reached for it. Had he forgotten to set it to screen his calls? But no, the little light that indicated privacy mode was active was illuminated. His comm buzzed again, shivering in his palm.

Iella's face suddenly froze as her own purse vibrated.

With a sudden sense of dread, Wedge activated his comlink.

Major Dorset Konnair, leader of Polearm Squadron, took another quick glance at her HUD as she continued her evening patrol, ensconced in the compact A-wing cockpit that gave larger pilots fits. Lusankya was still in drydock, undergoing its final maintenance cycle. The Super Star Destroyer was scheduled to be back in the field at the end of the current weekly cycle. When that time came, Fifth Fleet—and Major Dorset Konnair—would be heading to Corellia.

Maybe.

That had been the plan for the last two months. Lusankya's accumulated aches and pains, hard-won from cutting out the heart of the Imperial Starfleet, had finally earned her some much-needed maintenance time, and Fifth Fleet had been in combat zones for much longer than the New Republic Military preferred.

There were only a handful of facilities in the New Republic which could handle maintenance and repairs on a Super Star Destroyer. Kuat and Bilbringi were two, but Coruscant also had one—a legacy of the years Executor had been the Imperial flagship—and that massive, skeleton-like structure had Lusankya wrapped up in its tentacle-like appendages. Repair droids and personnel swarmed over Lusankya's hull at all hours of Coruscant's day, polishing and restoring armor and equipment.

The Rebellion hadn't had any choice, in those early years, except to put the same people into combat again and again, but it had gone to great lengths to offer its soldiers and pilots time for leave. Dorset had heard the old veterans of Rogue Squadron talk about Hoth and their time there and as prevalent as the Battle of Hoth itself loomed, the nostalgia many of them had for the camaraderie. Oh, it had been frigid and miserable and none of them wanted to go back… but Hoth had also been a sanctuary, without most of the amenities, but with ample time for the time for the Rebellion to lick their wounds, train hard, and even give its fighting sapients some much needed rest.

So as Hoth was to the rebellion, Coruscant was a temporary rest station for Fifth Fleet. Their ships were under-crewed as the safety of Home Fleet meant they weren't needed on a moment's notice, and those crew members could indulge in all the luxuries that Coruscant had to offer. As a native, Dorset didn't see quite the same appeal as everyone else had. She'd been home, seen her parents, and then gone back up to the docks and volunteered for extra duty. Hobbie—Wing Commander Klivian now—had placed her in command of Lusankya's CAP for the night shift.

She was a Major now. Being in command of a Super Star Destroyer's CAP was something she could just do, now. Secure in the privacy of A-wing's familiar cockpit, the small Coruscanti woman brushed a pale hand over the gleaming rank insignia on her flightsuit as if to assure herself it was still there. Still real.

Her promotion to Major had come after Carida. It had been six months since Carida and she still woke up shaking some nights, feeling the sputter of overheated engines, the pulsating hum of a depleted shield, and the depressing thunk of an empty missile magazine actuating, all while a wingpair of Defenders bored in on her. Then there was nothing left but streaks of red behind her and fiery explosions ahead. Hobbie and Janson had arrived at exactly the right moment, and in the flash of relief after their arrival she'd pulled herself back together.

The Polearms had suffered losses at Carida. She'd lost Polearm Twelve early in the fight—he'd been part of the initial A-wing slash and found himself tangling with a skilled TIE Defender. Twelve had reminded Dorset of herself. In some ways they couldn't have been more different: He was an Outer Rim kid, she was a Coruscanti, but they were both speed demons who loved to push their ships to their limits.

Twelve hadn't been the last, and replacing her lost pilots had—

"Sithspit!"

The exclamation came over her helmet com and Dorset jerked instantly out of reverie, her hand slamming down on her com pickup. "Status report!"

But the order was entirely unnecessary. Her A-wing's computer was already bringing up the target of her wingman's alarm, and if it hadn't been, she was close enough to see what had happened. Her brain sluggishly tried to make sense of it.

Through her A-wing canopy was an Imperial-class Star Destroyer that hadn't been there five seconds before. Less than ten kilometers away, the massive ship had struck a fleet logistics vessel solidly amidships. A glancing blow, the underside of the ISD's triangular bulk was shedding armor and hull plating even as TIE fighters awkwardly sprawled out of its hangar, avoiding the debris both from their mothership and from the Republic vessel it had struck.

The transport had been split in half by the impact. Escape pods and debris spiraled away from it, some of it deflecting off the Star Destroyer's shields.

That Star Destroyer couldn't be there. There was no way for it to have gotten this deep into Coruscant's space without being detected!

No. There was one way. "All fighters, this is CAG, Lusankya! Urgent scramble, we have cloaked Destroyers in the nest!" Dorset ordered. Hearing panic in her voice, she took a moment to let herself breathe, forcing herself to calm down. The enemy TIEs weren't coming in yet; they were still trickling from the obscured hangar of the Star Destroyer, which was using its tractor beams to clear more room for them to launch.

"This is Captain Kre'fey," Lusankya's commanding officer said over the com, and Dorset was relieved—and reassured—to hear that despite the obvious surprise in his voice, the Bothan was not panicking. "An Imperial II-class Star Destroyer has appeared in Sector 7. All ships prepare for combat and look for signs of other cloaked Imperial vessels!"

"With me, Two!" Dorset ordered, kicking her A-wing's engines to full throttle she raced her ship to intervene. She expected a handful of the TIEs to break from the mass—there were at least thirty of them, maybe forty—bearing down on Lusankya, but to her surprise none of the fighters did. Her HUD lighted with a representation of them on the display, and she didn't recognize their boxy, rectangular solar panel array from any TIE she had ever fought.

X-wings, A-wings, and E-wings from the on-call squadrons blinked into existence on her HUD as they launched, and other fighters from Coruscant's defense fleet appeared at maximum range, racing towards the intruding Star Destroyer. Like Dorset, the other fighters were moving to intercept and engage the TIEs. Her comm echoed with snippets of combat chatter. "This is Captain Darklighter. Rogue Squadron, form up!"

Above her, the Star Destroyer—which her computer now labeled Tyrannic, and noted that it was a known member of Admiral Daala's squadron—was firing on Lusankya. The much larger Super Star Destroyer returned fire, but it was also confined to a skeleton repair structure which blocked firing angles. That station, unlike Lusankya, was unarmored and not meant to absorb punishment. Even minimal turbolaser fire caused it to splinter into debris, droids and maintenance personnel vaporized by the gouts of lethal energy which carried on until stopped by Lusankya's armor.

The range dropped and Dorset was the first pilot to fire her lasers. She and Polearm Two came in on the TIE formation from the side, getting a good look at the slim, rectangular cut-out of their solar panels. Not as easy a target as the typical TIE starfighter, it was still easy to see, and her first burst of stuttering laser fire ripped through a solar panel and into the fuselage of the TIE beyond.

The resulting explosion sent a glare over her canopy and her A-wing shuddered as the outer edges of the burst of energy caught the nose of her fighter.

"—alright Lead?" Two asked over a staticky com line.

"I'm fine," she replied. "That was an awful big explosion for a TIE fighter."

"There's a lot more of them!" Darklighter exclaimed, the timbre and tone of his voice rising despite his own experience. "All fighters, maintain extra distance as you engage!"

She checked her HUD and her heart sank. The TIEs were spread out enough that the explosion that had just rattled her A-wing wouldn't extend enough to reach the other TIEs around it… and all of them were aimed, unnaturally and with growing velocity, on collision courses with Lusankya's massive bulk.

Then both her computer and her comm yelped with alarm and Dorset realized things had only gotten worse.

* * *

Still encased in the perfect dark of the cloaking shield, Stormhawk moved steadily in the direction the computer insisted Coruscant would be found.

Daala's four Star Destroyers had each been given a target. She checked her chrono and watched it tick steadily downwards to the time that had been chosen for the assault to begin. This was the riskiest part of her entire operation: the approach. Her ships were invisible, but they were equally blind and space around Coruscant was always busy. With all the freighters and warships constantly moving around the capital of the New Republic, Daala could not risk having one of her small craft pop out of cloak to take a quick look around. There was far too high a chance it would be spotted.

Coruscant was far too well defended for her to try any kind of conventional direct assault. With Home Fleet on guard, and Fifth Fleet also here for repairs and refitting, the combined firepower of the New Republic formations surpassed her four Star Destroyers more than ten times over. So while she was blind, blind was the only option she had.

She and Captain Markarian watched the chrono tick downwards, Stormhawk's engines pushing the Star Destroyer closer and closer to their intended target. The holo-display indicated a projected map of the space around Coruscant, the typical freighter paths, the patrols… and the blue lines of her ships. Only Stormhawk's line was a solid blue; the other three ships were all hidden away under their own cloaking shields. Daala knew only what their planned approach was, so the computer plotted their trajectories with uncertain, dotted lines.

And… now!

"Drop the cloak!" ordered Markarian. "Sensors, get me a full combat plot! Launch our TIE droids!"

"Target facility dead ahead!"

Space ahead of Stormhawk swarmed with activity, but that was expected. Their target was one of Coruscant's largest orbital docking frames… because large warehouses full of proton torpedoes were not something the denizens of Coruscant wanted on the ground.

The warehouse was guarded by no fewer than four Golan platforms. Their massive turbolasers would, if given the opportunity, easily destroy even Stormhawk, but Daala did not intend to give them that chance. Even as she watched, TIE droids streaked out of Stormhawk's hanger, building speed with reckless abandon. Their rate of acceleration would have strained a pilot even under full inertial compensators as they blazed in like malevolent meteors.

"Admiral, we have a problem." Frowning, she turned to look at Markarian, who had come in close. "Tyrannic is already under fire. It looks like they hit a freighter that strayed into their approach trajectory. Home Fleet is already scrambled and heading their way."

Daala swept her hands over the holo-plot to zoom out and see the entire battlefield. Her other ships—Nemesis and Larriken—were hitting their own targets even now. Those two ships were following the plan with precision, but Tyrannic had closed to outright turbolaser range and was raining fire down on Lusankya, and that had never been part of the plan. Coming so close, especially with Home Fleet and Lusankya's consorts already closing…

Tyrannic was doomed.

Unaccustomed sorrow descended over her. Daala was used to casualties in combat, to seeing ships and men under her command die following her orders. That was part of the job. But Tyrannic was the ship that Kratas commanded, the ship he'd earned with his loyalty, his talent, and his effort. For years, Kratas had been her strong right hand, the loyal subordinate that every commanding officer needed to govern her men.

She was going to have to watch him die.

With an iron grip she forced the sorrow back. Maybe she was, but his death would not be a waste. Even with Tyrannic's unfortunate accident, all of her ships had reached their targets, and if they could destroy them she would cripple the New Republic's ability to launch an offensive against the weakened Empire. Kratas would die, yes. But his death would buy her the time she needed to prepare the Starfleet to meet the threat it faced.

That would have to be enough.

"What happened, Grand Admiral?" asked Loyalty Officer Sarreti from just behind her. She had entirely forgotten the man; he'd done the best possible thing for him to do during the fighting and made himself scarce.

"They engaged maybe five, six minutes ago," she said, her tone almost that of a tutor, coldly explaining to a diligent, if slightly stupid, student. "Their cloak must have failed when they collided… that or Captain Kratas decided to drop the cloak after the collision, knowing he was revealed either way. He knew their Home Fleet would be alerted, so he decided to draw all attention towards him, so that we'd have the best chance to escape." She nodded firmly. "Let's not waste it. If we destroy our targets we'll set our enemy back months, but if we're destroyed in the process it won't matter. Proceed as ordered."

* * *

"Report three additional Star Destroyers!" That voice belonged to Lusankya's communications officer, Commander Needa, who announced the sudden, unexpected appearance of the additional enemy ships with remarkable steadiness. "Confirm—"

There was a sudden eruption on Lusankya's hull and his voice vanished. The TIEs, which Dorset had assumed were racing to launch proton torpedoes or concussion missiles with maximum effect, never pulled out of their dive. The first of them slammed headlong into Lusankya's hull. The resulting explosion left a decent-sized crater in the Super Star Destroyer's armor, wiping away a turbolaser emplacement.

Then the second struck.

Then the third.

One after another, bracketed over Lusankya's vital systems, TIEs rammed home, each leaving an oversized explosion in its wake. One struck the ship's bridge tower and, horrified, Dorset thought it had been destroyed. To her relief, as the glare from the explosion faded, the tower re-appeared—Captain Kre'fey had raised the ship's bridge shields in time.

"—c-confirm," coughed Needa over the com, and then continued more steadily, "confirm they include Stormhawk and Nemesis. Daala is in play!"

Distantly, in the periphery of her vision, there was another bright light. She looked instinctively and there she saw another flash, followed by a much larger third.

"What was that?" asked Two, sounding stunned. They had chased the TIEs as long as they had, but now there were no more to chase… each of them had struck Lusankya's hull. Dorset pulled her A-wing up, swallowing back a lump in her throat as she saw the array of smoking craters where turbolasers and tractor beam emplacements had once been. The Imp Destroyer delivered a rain of green turbolaser fire, skittering over Lusankya's armor to mar it further. No one blast did as much damage as the suicide TIEs, but the vulnerable, encumbered Lusankya could not mass her batteries while still in dock.

Her computer answered Two's question before she could and the answer only amplified Dorset's sense of dread. "That was the primary logistics and supply facility for Fifth Fleet," she said flatly. "It's gone… and it looks like the Empire took out one of Home Fleet's primary supply centers too." Stormhawk was out there, too distant to engage, almost taunting her with its inevitable escape. Hate bubbled up in Dorset's chest; with a snarl, she kicked her A-wing back around, pointing its nose straight at the Star Destroyer that she could reach and which was still attacking Lusankya. "With me!" she ordered, sending that command out not just to Polearm Two but also to all of Lusankya's fighters. "We have a Star Destroyer to kill!"

* * *

Commodore Atril Tabanne sprinted out of the bridge lift over Lusankya's long bridge walk. On either side of her, surprised—but remarkably disciplined—officers fought with their stations. Lusankya shuddered over and over, and now that she was out of the lift she could see why: TIE fighters struck Lusankya's hull like flaming meteors. She momentarily was awed by the sight, as the TIEs accelerated until they struck the ship's enormous hull, producing gouts of explosion and flame on impact. A-wings and E-wings fought off some of them, but that often resulted in TIE fighter debris striking Lusankya at high velocity. It was a dangerous thing to try to stop those TIEs, because the enemy Star Destroyer which had launched them was still filling the space between it and Lusankya with turbolaser fire.

"Incoming!"

Atril turned to look at the call. One of Lusankya's officers was pointing out the ship's bridge window and in the distance Atril could see the rapidly growing dot that was an incoming TIE.

"Reinforce bridge deflector shields!" ordered Captain Kre'fey. Still a young officer with little time in command, and one who had little direct combat experience before being handed Lusankya, Kre'fey responded to the surprise attack in space-dock with aplomb despite the speed of the assault and the damage Lusankya had already sustained. "Are we free of the station's docking clamps?"

"The last clamp has disengaged, sir!"

They watched together as the TIE hurtled towards them. Atril stared as the starfighter flew right at them, building speed for its ramming attack and she couldn't resist the urge to flinch as it smashed into the forward bridge window.

A terrific burst of light and fire washed over the polarized transparisteel, which tinted in response. The brightness still left splotches of glare on her eyes that she struggled to blink away.

"The bridge shields are holding," Kre'fey muttered next to her. "Good." Then he raised his voice. "Engage maneuvering thrusters! Bring us up and away from the station. As soon as we have reached a minimum safe distance, raise all shields!"

Now that they were free, Kre'fey could raise Lusankya's entire array of shields without blowing up the repair station in the process—what was left of it. Three of the station's grasping arms were gone, destroyed by TIE impacts. Lusankya had taken some heavy blows as well; the ship's status display was replete with orange and red lights indicating combat damage. But while the explosive-laden TIEs had done more damage than fifty proton torpedoes would have, it took more than fifty proton torpedoes to knock Lusankya out of a fight. The General had needed many, many hundreds to do it at Thyferra, after all.

"All fighters," Kre'fey called confidently, "target Tyrannic. Helm, bring us to combat range… let's see if we can get there before our fighters deprive us of our prey."

* * *

Daala watched as Lusankya's fighters swarmed over Tyrannic. Proton torpedoes struck home, knocking holes in shields, but Tyrannic fought past the minor wounds. Kratas' ship tore away at Lusankya, targeting weapons and vital systems with the precision that came from meticulous planning and excellent gunnery practice. Given enough time, Tyrannic would have inflicted considerably more harm than it already had… but Kratas did not have that time.

More squadrons of fighters, belonging to the New Republic's Home Fleet and flown by some of their finest pilots, raced up from Coruscant's surface. Unlike Lusankya's squadrons, currently under refit and largely believing their mothership safe from attack far behind the planet's outer ring of defenses, Home Fleet's squadrons were always prepared to defeat an attack or combat unrest on the capital of the New Republic. With no fighter cover, Tyrannic could do nothing as the B-wing and Y-wing squadrons lined up and launched torpedo volleys from their maximum range.

As Tyrannic was struck by the first volley, Stormhawk charged away from Coruscant, trying to escape its gravity well. The New Republic outer orbit defenses which they had snuck by on the way in now tried to maul them on the way out. A Victory-class Star Destroyer clawed at them recklessly, clearly hoping to prevent Stormhawk from escaping; its fighter squadrons managed a few ineffectual torpedo salvoes, unable to produce the kind of massed fire that Tyrannic faced. Stormhawk scattered the Vicstar with ion cannon fire to disrupt its attempts to lock tractors. When Stormhawk finally crossed back across the hyper limit, and her engines glowed with the energy required for a jump, Daala was rewarded with a last glimpse of the dying Tyrannic and the wounded Lusankya before all was lost to the spinning lights of hyperspace.

She felt Kratas' absence, an iron band wound tight around her heart. Then she took a breath and stared at the stars swirling through the window of Stormhawk's long walk, trying to put him away.

Lusankya had seen better days. Wedge and Han stared out at the massive Super Star Destroyer, and Wedge's heart fell as he got a closer look at the wounds she had sustained. Daala's TIE droids—rigged with explosives and aimed to ram—had managed to catch his flagship while Lusankya was in drydock, locked within the cradling embrace of a repair facility… and unable to raise most of her shields. The fact that Lusankya's bridge shields had been operable had saved the vessel even more severe losses—Wedge would have lost Captain Kre'frey, not to mention Atril and most of Lusankya's bridge crew. Even with that small grace, Lusankya's damage was horrifying to see. Even after Carida, and the subsequent hard-fought campaign to force the New Order farther and farther back into its Outer Rim territories, Lusankya had not looked so damaged.

And she's supposed to be brand new right now, he thought dismally. Just finished her repair cycle. Ready to go out and fight the Empire once again.

"'Least we don't need to go liberate Corellia," Han drawled philosophically. His large hand patted Wedge's back.

"Yeah, right," Wedge sighed. "We delayed and delayed and delayed getting ready to face the enemy, wanting to make sure everything was perfect. We waited too long. I should have had the fleet out hunting her down days ago."

Han scoffed. "Then you would have been out there hunting her before you were ready, and who knows what she would have hit on Coruscant if you hadn't been there to take the hits. Besides, this changes nothing." Han pointed at Lusankya through their shuttle's forward window. "That's a Super Star Destroyer. The flagship of a fleet of Star Destroyers and Mon Calamari cruisers, and we're building and crewing more every day. They aren't. This attack wasn't a show of strength, it was a sign of desperation."

Wedge knew Han was right. But in his gut, the fear wouldn't quit.

Far worse, some time later, was a different realization, one that left him hollow when it hit him. I didn't even think to ask how many people we lost.

Chapter Text

The Star Destroyer Stormhawk made orbit around Entralla a few days after their squadron's assault on Coruscant. Following the astrogation charts that had been sent by Emperor-Regent Halmere, Daala had managed to evade the major New Republic blockades along the major hyperspace routes. Instead, they had darted down the riskier paths: temporary hyperlanes, or lesser-used ones that required far more precise astrogation.

Daala's opinion of Halmere's leadership may have fallen into the gutter, especially after the news of Poln Major, but she respected his talents as an astrogator. Without his charts, her squadron would have been pinned down and destroyed long since, unable to evade all of the New Republic's pincer movements. Now, they allowed her to escape into Imperial-held territory.

She stood on Stormhawk's long walk and watched the crew work. Captain Markarian was a good officer, a fine officer, one deserving of his rank, but right then she resented him. She was furious with him. That was horribly unfair, because Markarian was not at fault for Kratas' death—ultimately, she was, for sending him to battle when so many, many things could go wrong—but he stood where Kratas had once stood, doing the job Kratas had once done, and she could not help but wish that it was Kratas aboard Stormhawk, and Markarian dead with Tyrannic.

Markarian seemed to know what she was thinking, because his approach was more cautious than she had grown accustomed to. "Grand Admiral?"

She mastered her anger, lest it master her, and schooled her features into a focused calm. Kratas' death is not Markarian's fault. She took a breath. "Yes, Captain?"

"We've received our orders, sir." His caution remained as he extended a datapad for her to take. "Two transports are being sent to us from Entralla Command. They're apparently carrying wounded who are due to receive further treatment at Silencer Station. We've also been told to turn navigational control over to Loyalty Officer Sarreti; he will be guiding us to the Emperor's bastion."

Her lips pressed together, a fresh wave of anger—directed not at Markarian, but at Halmere and his idiot minions—washing over her. "Summon Loyalty Officer Sarreti to the bridge."

"Yes sir." He made to turn away, but then turned back. "If I may, sir, I'm sorry about Captain Kratas. I didn't know him for long, but what little I saw impressed me."

She nodded stiffly. "Thank you, Captain," she said, a touch of thickness creeping back into her voice. She said nothing else, and the silence hung heavy there, like a promise of rain or thunder.

Thankfully, it did not take long for Sarreti to arrive. He was rarely far from the bridge, and if he was far it was always because he had some specific task that had been delegated to him from on high. "Grand Admiral," he said, the initial cheer in his tone dissipating as he saw Daala and Markarian's expressions.

"Emperor-Regent Halmere has ordered Stormhawk to attend him," Daala pronounced. "We've been summoned to his secret lair." The latter words were spoken with such pronounced sarcasm that Markarian winced. "To get there, we are required to turn navigation of this vessel over to you, and you alone."

She did not offer to have an actual astrogator plot their course, and then be shot to ensure the secret was kept, for fear that one of her political superiors would take her up on it and cost her a talented young officer.

Sarreti swallowed. "Ah. Of course," he said after a moment.

"You can plot the course?" Daala pressed.

The Loyalty Officer hesitated, then nodded, holding out a hand expectantly to Markarian before the hawk-nosed officer placed his command-link datapad into it. "Move Stormhawk to these coordinates, Captain Markarian," he ordered, and put a series of numbers into Markarian's datapad. "And I will get us safely to the Emperor-Regent."

He looked distinctly nervous plotting the course into Stormhawk's astrogation computer, the eyes of the entire bridge watching him from a safe distance, but there was no hesitation when he finished inputting the course. "You may engage the hyperdrive, Captain."

Daala nodded at Markarian, and the ship's captain straightened. "Of course." He did it himself, rather than making his helm officer take final responsibility, and it was like the entire bridge crew inhaled at once before the ship vanished into hyperspace.

We did not all die, Daala thought sourly, so that is at least better than nothing.

Cray and Nichos did not have many opportunities to speak privately. Since her success at creating the Silencer command interface and subsequent attempt at escape, she had noticed a clear intensification in the amount of monitoring. Holocams hidden in wall mounts, microphones hidden virtually everywhere… it was becoming harder and harder for them to plot their sabotage of the Empire's plans.

Cray desperately wanted to talk to Nichos about her ideas, too. Yes, they were quietly working to sabotage the Empire, however they could, but they only had access if they made themselves useful. If they simply refused to work, the Empire would just kill them… slowly, painfully, and Nichos first… so they had to work, make their work look valuable, while simultaneously building in flaws that would not be noticed until it was too late.

It did not help that Nichos was getting weaker and weaker. He had never fully recovered from the stun blast he had taken, and feigned weakness had become real weakness. Many days he could not even stand, and the amount of Perogen he required to dull the pain also made it harder for him to concentrate. He still had good days, and on those days the two of them worked together just as they had for all their time at the Magrody Institute and got so much done. But those days were fewer and fewer.

Had they been back at Magrody, she could save him. They had come so far with their work on the Ssi-Ruuk technology, and she was convinced that she could at the very least transfer his consciousness from his own failing body into a fully synthetic one. But there was no way to do that here, so the opportunity was forever lost.

Instead, she worked to improve the TIE droid design, while seeking out the best way to subtly sabotage it. This was more Nichos' specialty than hers; she did better with the actual hardware of cybernetics, while he was the superior programmer. That did not mean she was not capable of doing the work while he was indisposed.

The door to her lab whispered open, and she heard the familiar footsteps of Irek Ismaren. "Have you made progress?"

She sat up and glanced at him. "Some. I'm working to make one of the more advanced AI profiles work with the TIE droid's performance suite. It can work, but the TIE droid's suite is so different from the late-model Techno Union fighters that it needs a lot of tweaking."

It was odd, she thought. When Irek had first started overseeing her work, he'd been more imposing and domineering. But since Irek had succeeded in using the command interface to command the Silencer AI, he had become less dismissive. In particular, she noticed, less dismissive of Nichos.

The young Emperor's gaze found Nichos, where he was sleeping on the reclining couch he so often occupied. "That's a task Doctor Marr is best suited for, isn't it?"

Cray's heart jumped in her chest. Today was not one of Nichos' good days. If he tried to force Nichos to work in his current state…

* * *

Since his encounter with Emperor-Regent Halmere, Irek Ismaren had worked diligently to try to accomplish the mission Halmere had set him to. Resentfully, but diligently. He had used the command interface to try to boost the rate at which Silencer Station could construct new TIE Droids and had some minimal success—though only at the cost of slowing the station's further growth. Largely foiled, he had done as his mother suggested and put Cray and Nichos to work.

He needed Nichos to work. There was no other way to meet his mother's demands.

He concentrated. The Force bent to his will and allowed him to do many things, and among those things was to sense and manipulate the minds of others. He wanted Nichos to work. He wanted the TIE Droid to defeat all of his enemies, to establish his unquestioned lordship over the New Order. He wanted, and because he wanted, the Force would give.

Reality itself would warp to his desires, if he wanted it enough.

With the Force solidly in his grip, Irek reached out towards Nichos. The man's mind was in a stupor. Irek felt only a lack of focus, an inability to concentrate, a lack of precision. The painkillers Nichos was on had robbed him of everything that made him useful to Irek, and Irek wanted him to be useful.

So Irek made him useful.

He could feel the Force unwinding the ameliorative effect of the Perogen on Nichos' body. He could feel as the man's mind became active and aware again. Sharpness of thought was restored—along with a sudden spike of meaningless fear, as Nichos realized that something was happening—and there was the brilliant scientist that could fix the TIE Droid! That was what Irek wanted, what he would…

And then, the pain.

Stretched out in the Force as he was, Irek's mind focused so closely on Nichos', the pain did not just strike Nichos. It tore at Irek as well.

His hands and feet were on fire.

Needles thrust through his digits, coming through the other side. Those needles worked up his thighs and down his arms, puncturing his shoulders and knees. All the sharpness of mind that Irek wanted dissolved under the sudden intensity of the onslaught. He crumpled, unable to keep himself standing, feeling like his lungs were on fire, like breathing itself was a chore, and Irek Ismaren would give anything, anything for the pain to stop. He tried to withdraw his senses from Nichos, to retreat from the sudden devastating barrage…

It was Nichos who took back control.

Irek was not sure how long it took. It could have been minutes, or hours, or even days; the pain was consuming, devouring, nibbling away at his mind and thoughts, rendering him dumb. After a time, he realized the pain was beginning to recede. Slowly, excruciatingly, those violent punctures were pushed back into his digits, and were replaced—

* * *

Nichos Marr refused to succumb.

He couldn't.

Cray needed him.

He could feel her, clinging to his chest, urging him back to her. Distantly, he could feel Irek Ismaren too. That was an odd sensation, one of touch without touch, one that roiled with agony that matched his own. But Cray was the one who mattered, Cray was the one he loved. She needed him, and he would not succumb. Not until he knew, he knew, that she would be all right.

He fought for Cray Mingla.

At some point he realized what had happened. He wasn't sure how, but Irek had neutralized the effects of the Perigen in his system all at once, and the pain had erupted over him in its absence. He also wasn't sure how he fought the pain back, how he brought himself back to sanity, but he did. His hands and feet were afire, excruciating, but it was just pain. Pain he knew. Pain he had grown accustomed to, over weeks turned to months. Pain he could defeat.

He wrapped his arms around Cray Mingla and hugged her tight, ignoring the way his hands hurt when he did. The pain was irrelevant. Cray was what mattered.

* * *

Slowly, excruciatingly, those violent punctures were pushed back into Irek's digits, and were replaced with a sudden, soaring sense of love.

It made his own attraction to Cray seem like a petty thing. Commitment, promise, companionship all wrapped together into one, Irek was suddenly and quite inadvertently subjected to a powerful burst of Nichos' feelings. It lasted only a second, because the mental connection Irek had forged with Nichos burst under its intensity, shattering to nothing, and instantly all the pain he felt was gone.

He stumbled to his feet and left without an acknowledgement or an apology.

Cray Mingla was on the couch by Nichos' chest, clinging to him. Nichos was hugging her back… and Irek was amazed that Nichos' hands only trembled. In an instant lasting forever, Irek Ismaren understood.

Stormhawk's trip from Entralla to its destination—whatever that was, Daala thought—took more than a day. It required multiple hyperspace jumps, presumably to navigate along the less-well-known routes of the outer Outer Rim and to avoid any kind of pursuit. The secrecy of this place was taken very seriously.

Now they were here. Wherever 'here' was.

"Full system scan," she ordered as Stormhawk came out of hyperspace. "I want a detailed report."

"Yes, sir!"

The system was dense with planets and planetoids. Ten planets and three asteroid belts were the system's defining characteristic. The route that Sarreti had programmed brought them in on a predictable course, one aiming at what appeared to be a particularly dense portion of the third asteroid belt.

"That's strange," Markarian said.

"What is, Captain?"

He gestured at the plot. "This asteroid belt is still consolidating, sir. I think it must have been a planet sometime recently. All the matter is concentrated here, not spread in a typical ring. It doesn't look like it's settled into a stable set of orbits yet. I imagine it's quite dangerous to get too close."

"Bring us above the system plane," Daala ordered. "And raise shields to maximum. Warn damage repair teams that we may suffer impact damage."

"Yes, sir."

She lifted a hand and crooked a finger at Loyalty Officer Sarreti, inclining that he should approach. "Yes, Grand Admiral?" he asked as he came near.

"What happened here, Loyalty Officer?"

Sarreti's lips pressed together. "I'm afraid I don't know the specifics. But you'll see enough to understand when we get close."

Daala did not like that answer. "Are we in danger here?"

Sarreti took a reluctant breath. "I think proximity to the Emperor is inherently dangerous, Grand Admiral."

An honest answer. And also a warning. She could work with that. "Reduce our approach velocity," she ordered. "Turbolaser batteries, keep watch for stray asteroids or other incoming. Do not fire without specific orders."

The officers in the crew pits called their understanding.

Beside her, Sarreti watched the plot. "Bring up the forward scopes," he murmured to her. "And I suggest bringing us to a stop here, rather than approaching closer. If the crew doesn't see Silencer Station, my superiors at ISB are less likely to deem them security risks."

"All engines, stop," Daala ordered, glancing at him sideways. "And bring me a pair of macrobinoculars."

Markarian handed her a pair; she handed them to Sarreti. The ISB Loyalty Officer stood in front of the bridge window, focusing their lenses. Then, expressionlessly, he handed the macrobinoculars to Daala.

It took her brain a few moments to process what she was seeing. There was indeed a planet—or what was left of one—in the center of a dense cloud of shattered rocks. Hovering over the planet's surface was an enormous, gray and black rectangle. As she adjusted the macrobinoculars she could see it more clearly: really, it was two mostly-square portions, attached by a thick connecting portion. On either side, the rectangle had enormous leg-like appendages, which ended with portions that looked like massive AT-AT hooves. Below the ship, space itself seemed to shimmer, and she could see matter being sucked up into the space station, as if it was feeding off the corpse of the dead planet.

The station had the mass of many Imperial-class Star Destroyers.

She handed the macrobinoculars to Markarian, then as the Captain took his own look, she turned to Sarreti. "Silencer Station?"

"Yes, Grand Admiral," Sarreti confirmed.

"That is where the TIE droids are constructed?" she asked.

Sarreti nodded. "It's an arms manufactory," he said, keeping his voice low enough that it wouldn't carry across the open bridge. "And it is Emperor and Empress-Regent Ismaren's personal fiefdom."

Markarian lowered the macrobinoculars. "How capable a manufactory is it?" he asked.

"I know it isn't fully operational," Sarreti said. "There have been some issues bringing it to full capacity. But the Inquisitors have told ISB that once it is fully capable, it will be able to construct not just TIEs, but also ships the size of Star Destroyers, in sufficient numbers to smother the New Republic." He took the macrobinoculars and looked once again. When he lowered them, his expression was slightly awed, and a bit fearful. "It's still growing."

"Growing?"

"When I first saw Silencer Station, Grand Admiral, it was less than half the size it is now," he said.

Beside her, Markarian inhaled with surprise. "How big will it get?" asked Daala.

"I don't think there's a limit to its potential size," Sarreti said. "We should approach via a shuttle. I have my transport and crew, they've all been here before."

"Captain Markarian, you're to stay here to mind your ship," Daala ordered.

"Yes, Grand Admiral," Markarian said, clearly relieved.

She gestured at the turbolift. "After you, Loyalty Officer Sarreti."

The true size of Silencer Station became all-too-obvious on their approach. Not as large as the Death Star had been, Silencer Station was nonetheless enormous. The fact that it was growing became more clear to Daala as they got close enough for her to see the station's hull with her bare eyes. The outer hull was in slow, constant motion, components shifting slightly as new components were incorporated into its frame. Below the ship, a swell of shimmering light sucked up the mass from the broken planet beneath it, drawing it into the station's two massive maws, one on either side, centered on each of the station's two centers of mass. The amount of raw material the station was consuming was on par with what a shipyard like Bilbringi consumed, if not more.

Daala could also see the station's defenses. The ship's exterior was lined with turbolaser batteries and tractor beam emitters meant for combating large enemy ships, and swarms of hundreds of TIE Droids circled it on CAP. The droid starfighters ignored Sarreti's shuttle as they approached, paying them no attention whatsoever.

In fact, there was none of the typical formality. No approach challenge. No escort. Silencer Station had identified them and determined they were not a threat, and that was all.

The main hangar was in the middle section of Silencer Station. Unlike the other components, this part was thickly armored and not undergoing the same kind of constant transformation. "I don't think anyone lives or works on the sides," Sarreti commented from beside her, watching—as she was—their approach towards the station. "It's all managed by droids, and I don't think those sections are even pressurized. The central core is where the people are."

"How does it work?"

"The technical details are beyond me," Sarreti admitted. "But I know that the station is built around something called a 'molecular furnace.' It takes the raw materials of the planet and uses them to construct whatever it's told to. Of course, the primary product of Silencer Station is TIE droids."

"How many TIE droids can it build at a time?" she asked.

Sarreti shrugged. "I don't know for sure. What I do know is the intent originally was to build thousands each month, if not more, but the station's production rate has never reached those predictions."

Hence Halmere's failure to deliver the TIEs he originally promised me, Daala thought sourly.

They passed through the magnetic shields into the hangar. Inside, Daala could see the lines of humanoid forms, prepared as an honor guard, and the singular, smaller, white-and-black armored form of Emperor-Regent Halmere. She straightened her white Grand Admiral's uniform, making sure all the wrinkles had been worked out of the fabric. When the shuttle touched down, she was waiting at the top of the ramp, and her feet touched the station's deck shortly after the ramp finished its descent.

As she had expected, none of the lines of troopers were actually people. Black metal figures armed with large blaster rifles, they looked sort of like stormtroopers but on closer inspection the differences were all-too-obvious.

The entire thing sent a shiver down her spine.

Unlike the last time she had met him, Halmere was alone. She snapped to salute. "Grand Admiral Daala, reporting as ordered, your highness."

"Welcome to Silencer Station, Grand Admiral Daala," Halmere said. His voice had a dull, eerie quality to it, almost as lacking in verve as the droid chorus he had serenaded her with upon their last meeting. "I have reviewed your report. Your assault on Coruscant was inspired and I appreciate that you knew when to strip our outposts of ships that would no longer be able to protect them. The loss of Corellia is dire, but at least you saved some of our loyal ships and their crews."

"Thank you, Your Highness."

"We will of course retake all we have lost," Halmere continued in that same dull tone. "Despite our recent setbacks, this station will provide all we need to secure the future of the New Order and crush the New Republic."

"How may I be of assistance, Emperor-Regent?"

"We are taking stock of our remaining resources," Halmere replied. "Loyalty Officer Sarreti, I want you to oversee the transfer of wounded from Stormhawk to Silencer Station. Attend to your duties at once."

Sarreti looked at her, then bowed and took a step back. "Of course, Emperor-Regent. I will see to it." He spun on his heels and retreated, already reaching for his wristcomm.

"As for you, Grand Admiral Daala, I want you to review all the assets the Empire has left, including what is available to the disloyal warlords in the Deep Core, and develop a battle plan. I trust you will be more competent at this than Admiral Valentin proved to be."

Daala restrained herself from pointing out that she had told him, very specifically, that Valentin was an idiot. After all, she had command now. What had already been lost could not be regained by pointing out that fact… and Halmere might accuse her of treason if she displeased him.

Both self-preservation, and her honest assessment there was no one else left in the Empire who could competently command the Starfleet, summoned her obedient response. "Of course, Emperor-Regent," she said. "Until I am dead or unfit to serve."

The pair of medical transports soared into the hangar on parallel courses. Expertly flown, they both settled to the deck of the large main hangar bay. Once they were on the ground, medical droids swarmed over them to assist the wounded.

One of the medical droids rolled up to Sarreti. "How many wounded are aboard these two vessels?" it asked, in its passably-soothing voice. Medical droids were designed to put their sentient patients at ease, but were mediocre at best at doing so.

"Four thousand all told," Sarreti told the droid. "You have medical facilities adequate to their needs here?"

"Of course," the droid said, its eyes flickering. "We could attend many more. How many of the wounded are pilots? Pilots are our priority patients; their skills are vital to the Empire in this trying time."

"Not many," Sarreti said, checking his datapad. After the repeated defeats of the Imperial Starfleet, TIE fighters had become a precious resource, and TIE pilots even more so. "A few dozen at most."

"That will have to suffice," the droid said. "Please inform Imperial command at Entralla that Silencer Station has facilities to ensure that the Starfleet's pilot corps will be able to return to duty as quickly as possible, and that priority should be placed on sending wounded pilots here whenever possible, even in small numbers."

Sarreti frowned, unsure why Silencer Station—which was designed to produce droids, not care for people—would have the finest medical facilities in the Empire for the care of pilots. But, he supposed, that was not his call. "Of course." He looked around. "Do you have any immediate human superiors, droid?"

"Our immediate superior is Empress Dowager Ismaren," the droid reported obediently. All around them, the wounded were being loaded onto a variety of repulsorsleds; the hum of repulsors filled the room as the sleds lifted up off the ground and started to make their way towards the exits, escorted by medical droids. "But she is not currently available for consultation."

"Do you have a second-in-command?"

"Both Bevel Lemelisk and Nasdra Magrody have been retired from active service," the droid said.

Sarreti waited for the droid to say more. He frowned deeper when the droid did not elaborate. "So this entire operation is managed by droids?"

"Loyalty Officer, I can assure you that we are more than capable of seeing to all the needs of the Empire," the droid reproached.

Something about all this gave Sarreti the hives. "Perhaps I can visit your operations later, then. Attend to the wounded and ensure that they are in good spirits. Humans often appreciate seeing a friendly face." Especially if their only alternative was a creepy medical droid.

The droid swiveled to look at him. "Loyalty Officer Sarreti, what is your ISB clearance rating?"

Sarreti frowned. What did that have to do with anything? "I was ranked Lieutenant Colonel before I was promoted to Loyalty Officer. Specific clearance ratings are at the discretion of the senior command hierarchy."

"Please wait." The droid went dark, though occasional lights flashed side to side in its eyes. "Upload link to the Ubiqtorate database established. Verifying identity and command authorization. State your name and rank."

His frown deepened. "Ephin Sarreti, Loyalty Officer assigned to Grand Admiral Daala."

"Voiceprint verification complete." The droid's eyes illuminated, but the light in them was narrowed to a dot. "Please look into my eyes, Loyalty Officer."

Sarreti was starting to get really freaked out, but he obeyed. He leaned forward and made direct eye contact with the medical unit, as if he were undergoing an eye exam.

"Retinal verification complete. Identity verified. Thank you, Loyalty Officer Ephin Sarreti." The droid withdrew, its eyes returning to normal. "Project access authorization confirmed. You may accompany me, if you wish."

Despite his misgivings, he did.

The hospital corridor was extremely well lit; either side of it was lined with numerous doors. Peeking inside, Sarreti saw men lying in medical beds. The treatment rooms were entirely silent, without any conversation between the wounded officers and their nurse droids.

"You sedated them?"

"Examinations and operations occur in an unconscious state unless consciousness is required," the medical droid said.

Sarreti snapped his mouth shut. "Operations?" he asked warily.

He should not have asked.

* * *

Ephin Sarreti got off Silencer Station as quickly as possible. He spent the entire trip back to Stormhawk retching in the shuttle's confined refresher until his stomach was empty but his nausea remained.

He told himself he would feel better in the morning, but sleep was long in coming, and when it came the nightmares were even more terrible than his waking hours. The smiling officers, who had thought they were being taken to a medical facility to treat their wounds, refused to leave him be.

"I didn't know," he pleaded in his dreams. "I didn't know."

But now he did.

He did know.

He tried, briefly, to rationalize it. There was a logic to the madness. And they were all Imperials, they had all sworn the oath. But with what Roganda had cooked up in her house of horrors, that oath took on a whole new meaning.

If this is what it takes to preserve the New Order, Ephin Sarreti asked himself in the privacy of his own mind, locked behind a transparisteel cage of mental discipline, is the New Order worth preserving?

But that wasn't the right question, he realized.

If the New Order is willing to do this to its own people, was it ever the thing I imagined it to be? That my father imagined it to be?

It was a simple question. Ephin Sarreti found a simple answer.

No.

Chapter Text

Roganda's shuttle was one of the fastest vehicles in space. Originally a dispatch boat designed to carry communications too vital to be sent via the HoloNet or passengers who couldn't be, it had military-grade hyperdrives tuned by some of the best engineers the Kuat Drive Yards had to offer. Then Roganda had spent years hiring engineers to modify and improve it. The result was that she arrived at Coruscant a few hours before Pulsar Skate did.

The arrival at Coruscant was more complicated than she had expected. It became clear, after only a few minutes reviewing the local HoloNet's datafeeds, that Coruscant had been attacked, and that the attack had been largely successful. The image of Natasi Daala, wearing the stark white of an Imperial Grand Admiral, was in the corner of every broadcast as commentators speculated about her history and her recent successes.

Roganda didn't think much of Daala, or much about her. She'd never been overly concerned with the Starfleet or its personnel. Still, she could appreciate talent when it forcibly imposed itself on her universe… even if it made her infiltration into Coruscant slightly more difficult. Ultimately, though, the multiplicity of fake identifications that Palpatine had forged her remained valid. Coruscant was not a world which could afford to shut down travel for long. It was too busy, too important, the hub that brought the galaxy together in one place.

It was also very easy to blend in, once she was on the ground.

She had a few options for what to do next and she had spent the entire trip from Nar Shaddaa evaluating those options. Everything depended on what the Jedi would do with their prize. If they secured it in former Imperial facilities, such as what was left of the not-yet-fully dismantled Imperial Palace, she would be able to get in without too much difficulty. The numerous override codes she had access to as the Emperor's Hand still worked, and they especially still worked in the facilities that the Emperor had constructed himself. But they likely knew that as well as she did, given Mara Jade's former affiliations, which made it more likely that they would secure the Engine on their own turf.

The hours she had in advance of their return, therefore, she spent staking out the so-called Jedi Consulate. Doing her best to keep herself small in the Force—there were too many Force sensitives in this place to take any chances—she systematically surveyed the structure from all sides, identifying all the entrances. There were the landing pads for direct entry, but also numerous windows for potential covert or aggressive entry, and on Coruscant there was always the possibility of entry from the building's lower levels and then climbing upwards, though that option was not very appealing.

She would make a decision about how best to approach later. When the computer twanged, alerting her to the fact that Pulsar Skate had just been identified by Coruscant's navigational system, she kicked her airspeeder to full throttle, heading directly away from the Consulate. She would return—when she was ready.

In the front window of her speeder the Imperial Palace loomed. Some of the enormous towers that the Emperor had constructed around the original structure were still present, spiraling and creating the highest peak in the Senatorial District. Most had been dismantled. Enormous construction and reclamation droids surrounded the structure continuing the dismantling day and night, with crews working hard to reclaim as much of the raw material and all the valuable assets as possible.

She set her speeder down in a large parking facility a few blocks away. Over the next few hours she made her way towards the structure on foot, using the Force and her espionage training to bypass New Republic security checkpoints and avoid construction crews. Around the interior building security was extremely high, but around the outer ring it was laxer. Most of those structures were now gone, after all, leaving behind only their foundations, which were nothing but solid permacrete and should still be present.

It was with sudden, horrified fear that she realized that some of those foundations were already gone. One had been excavated, and with a sinking feeling Roganda realized that the New Republic knew that Palpatine had hidden secret facilities within the seemingly impermeable blocks of solid permacrete. She feared her plans had been foiled… but the New Republic had not finished excavating all the outer ring towers. They had started with Tower Fourteen and were steadily working their way around… but Tower Eight was as yet untouched.

Hope and confidence flared back to life. She didn't need her old facility, but it would definitely make things a lot easier.

At ground level, the remains of the Palace complex were a sprawling labyrinth. At the center of the structure were a number of old buildings that dated back to the early days of even the Old Republic, and archaeological restoration of those structures was evidently part of the New Republic's plan, but virtually every other structure within a wide radius around the palace had been leveled. The buildings that had replaced them became part of the sprawling Imperial Palace, a governing facility that centralized authority for much of the known galaxy into a single space. That labyrinth was now Roganda's best friend, because even half-dismantled it offered no end to potential cover. Using her jammer she scrambled all the holocams in the area and made her way from building to building, blending with construction workers and droids as much as possible.

There was something else that would make this easier…

Concentrating, she reached out with the Force. There were minds all around her, but she looked for ones alone. Careful to stay out of sight, she made her way towards one that seemed promising—a construction worker, a woman who was examining some of the work that had already been done. She was near Tower Five—one of the towers which it seemed had not concealed some secret Imperial facility, but had been the solid block of permacrete it appeared to be on maps—and taking notes on a datapad.

Lost in her work, the woman didn't hear Roganda behind her. She was using a holocam to take holos of the structure, then making notes—about what, Roganda had no idea—but she finally noticed Roganda's approach when the Emperor's Hand was only twenty feet away.

"Hey!" the woman waved at her. "It's not safe around here! This is a construction zone, and there may be explosives in these ruins! When we dismantled Tower Two it exploded!"

Roganda held her hand by her ear and waved it in a circle, offering the woman a quizzical look. The construction worker sighed and shook her head; as she got closer, Roganda saw that she was a bit older, with graying hair and a professional demeanor. "I said it isn't safe here! You should go back the way you came—" she waved her hand, pointing her datapad away from the palace's growing ruins "—because we've had multiple fatalities from Imperial booby traps just in the last two days. I'm here checking to make sure that there aren't—"

Roganda jabbed the other woman in the stomach, driving all the air from her lungs. The woman's expression was one of stunned surprise, then Roganda couldn't see her face anymore as she wrapped an arm around her neck and squeezed. Dropping to the ground for added leverage, she tightened her grip until she felt the woman's gleaming presence in the Force go dark.

There would be no way to pretend this was a construction accident. Roganda efficiently stripped the woman of her clothes and put them on, then hid the body in the ruins. It would be found in no more than a day, but that would be enough time.

With her appropriated clothes, including the attached security pass, Roganda was able to make her way to Tower Eight. This tower was still standing—though if she had arrived even just a day or two later, it might not have been. The construction teams looked poised to begin work on it.

All was providence.

She stepped close to the smooth, painted stone of the tower, looking for the right place. She pressed her palm to the stone and shifted her fingers. There was a click, and Roganda stepped back as creases in the stone appeared and a heavy door swung slowly open.

Roganda flicked on her glowrod, casting its beam down the corridor. She didn't feel any presence, but her first line of defense had always been droids and they didn't have one, so she focused instead on amplifying her danger sense. When she didn't sense any immediate danger, she hurried down the long, featureless permacrete corridor. The familiar passageways were unchanged from her last visit, which was a relief—there had been a chance that even if the New Republic hadn't known about this place, that someone like Ysanne Isard might have found it before being forced to retreat from Coruscant.

But when she arrived at the heart of Tower Eight, it became clear that Isard had not found this place. It was out of time, a little reminder of the Empire at the height of its glory—the Empire that she would restore and rule. The Empire that belonged to her by right.

A small army of deactivated battle droids, the predecessors of the ones she had brought with her to Nar Shaddaa, were laid out in their cradles, dusty with disuse, though not damaged by the nearby demolition work. Combat droids with legs and blaster rifles, repulsor-mounted droids with hoversleds and mini-missiles, all that and more were here. At the far side of the room was a heavy freighter that looked innocuous, but Roganda knew better.

It was an army of unquestioning, loyal servants. It was a bulwark against the galaxy trying to bring her down. It would provide everything she would need, and more, to give the Rebels and anyone who doubted her a sharp taste of what was to come.

Pulsar Skate raced through hyperspace at a speed only slightly slower than the Millenium Falcon on her best day. The flowing lines of the vessel's ocean-dwelling design inspiration gave their passage through the spinning lights of hyperspace an oddly oceanic feel—Luke didn't usually consider the parallel of space to an ocean made by all too many people; to him, space was far closer to the harsh deserts of Tatooine than anything oceanic—but aboard Skate the analogy it felt a little more appropriate. Still, despite that, he would have preferred to be back aboard Tempered Mettle.

"How long until we arrive?"

Asori Rogriss sat perched in the chair Mirax had offered her, towards the rear of Pulsar Skate's bridge. Luke was still getting accustomed to the appearance of the woman in her Imperial uniform; somehow it just didn't look like it fit just right. But Luke himself had once dreamed of going to the Imperial Academy just to get off Tatooine, so perhaps it wasn't right for him to judge the life choices of others. Besides, it wasn't like he hadn't wanted to follow in his father's footsteps too, as she had.

"Hours yet. We're making good time, but we have enough time for a meal before reversion," Mirax said.

Asori nodded awkwardly, then her head swiveled to take in their surroundings. "Commander Dreyf was working on his report for the Admiral. Where's Jedi Jade?"

Luke had just been wondering that himself. Through their bond in the Force he felt no threats, nor had Mara sent him any kind of warning that something was wrong. "I'm not sure. I'll go see where she is and get started on dinner."

He found Mara on the couch in the Skate's primary lounge. Someone had pulled a blanket over her—Luke wasn't sure who, but he guessed it had been Liat—because she had fallen asleep. Her head lolled over the edge of the couch, in as deep a sleep as Luke could remember… which was stunning. For Mara to fall asleep in a public location, with Imperials about, and with that powerful Force artifact stowed in the Skate's secure hold, was nothing short of astonishing.

She must have been exhausted. Smiling, Luke carefully slid onto the couch next to her. "Hey," he murmured.

She started, staring blearily at him as she gradually returned to consciousness. Her poleaxed expression almost made him laugh. "Mmh? Huh?"

"You fell asleep," Luke explained, able to hide his laugh but not able to hide his broadening smile. She was cute when she was like this.

"Asleep?" Mara asked. "What time is it?"

"Middle of the afternoon in the Palace District on Coruscant. You're usually adjusted to time switches faster than this."

Mara rubbed her face with both hands. "During my time as the Emperor's Hand, I used to be able to stay awake for—"

Now Luke did laugh, and sudden realization passed over Mara's expression. Slowly, she offered him a rueful smile. "I used that line when threatening you on Myrkr, didn't I?" she said, and yawned widely. "I am tired. I didn't miss dinner?"

"No, I was just about to get started on it. If you want to help…"

Mara scoffed. "Farmboy, we both know that if I try to help you with dinner, we're all going to go hungry until Coruscant. Have the Imperials behaved?"

"I haven't seen Dreyf, but there's no indication that anyone has tried to breach the secure hold." Luke helped her to her feet, a gesture which under other circumstances would have earned him a glare, but Mara was evidently still sufficiently sleep-addled that she didn't notice.

"I'll go check on it, just to be safe. I was supposed to be doing that." She shook her head. "I can't believe I fell asleep."

The self-recrimination was mild, without any bitterness. For that, Luke was grateful. He kissed her forehead fondly. "I'll do my best to make something you like out of Mirax's supplies."

Asori Rogriss sat with her back straight in one of the Pulsar's Skate passenger seats as it came out of hyperspace, appearing just outside of Coruscant's gravity well. Slowly they coasted in towards the busy planet. Warships were assembled in formation just inside the well, protectively guarding the hordes of civilian transports and freighters streaming in and out of Coruscant to provide for the needs of its masses.

They did not approach the planet. Instead, they vectored towards the warships, their forms growing large as they approached.

She saw the entire New Republic Fifth Fleet from a distance that, were she aboard Termagant, would have meant the immediate death of her command. Lusankya's massive Starbird insignias dwarfed Pulsar Skate, and they were plastered on the hull of a ship that would dwarf Termagant by an even greater margin. She caught herself holding her breath, as if waiting to be fired upon, and forced herself—with difficulty—to relax.

Lusankya looked like it had seen recent combat. Its hull, especially its dorsal hull, was pocked and scarred by unrepaired impact damage.

Dreyf, who was sitting next to her, leaned in. "It looks like Lusankya has seen some action," he murmured.

"It is surprising indeed that Fifth Fleet is still here," Asori murmured back, grateful for the distraction from her upcoming meeting with Antilles. "You would think it would be gone by now. Do you think they went out and came back?"

"With all the rumors floating around Nar Shaddaa about Corellia, maybe there was a battle between Fifth Fleet and Daala."

Asori nodded. Whatever had happened, she was sure to find out soon, so there was little use worrying about it. But if she wasn't worrying about the ships and their guns, she was worrying about her mission and her responsibilities, and that was little better.

"We're coming in for landing now, Lusankya," Mirax said into her comm, and Pulsar Skate nosed towards the Super Star Destroyer's bridge tower landing bay like a tiny fish swallowed by a massive undersea leviathan. The magcon field shimmered as the nose of the freighter penetrated it, and then the sight of Lusankya's hull was past, and the comfortably-familiar hangar interior was there instead. It looked like an Imperial ship—the New Republic hadn't gone to any great trouble to redo the interior furnishings of the Imperial vessels it captured—but instead of rows of orderly stormtroopers, rows of New Republic marines were there instead, a variegated mess of species that still gave Asori a first impression of disorder and chaos.

But then, as chaotic as it might seem, Fifth Fleet had proven itself time and again since the failed peace negotiations between Grand Moff Kaine and the New Republic. More than that, Asori's own crew aboard Termagant was much more diverse than anything the New Order would tolerate. The mix of species who had been brought under the umbrella of Fel's Unknown Regions Expeditionary Force, willingly joining the alliance for their own defense, had been a shock to Asori's system. There were still moments where she felt discomfited. Perhaps there always would be. But her discomfiture, wherever it came from, was simply wrong.

She suppressed it with discipline and intent as Pulsar Skate settled to the deck.

"And we're here," Mirax said cheerfully. "Now that we're here and I have secure access to the Coruscanti HoloNet, I'm going to get caught up on messages. If Corran doesn't check in from Corellia soon, he and I are going to have some words." Mirax looked at Asori. "And you should prepare yourself. I'm not sure how Wedge is going to react to that recording of Syal."

How was she supposed to do that? Asori wondered. "Very well. Thank you for the ride, Captain Terrik."

"This way, Commander," Mara Jade said, poking her head into the bridge and pulling Dreyf to his feet. She nodded at Asori. "There's an officer here to take us to meet with Wedge in his quarters."

A trim, attractive brunette taller than Asori, and clad in a New Republic Fleet uniform with Commodore's pips, stood at the foot of the Pulsar Skate's boarding ramp escorted by an entire platoon of New Republic Marines with intent, expressionless faces. Asori recognized the officer from her briefing book—Commodore Atril Tabanne, General Antilles' current adjutant. The Commodore's dark eyes focused intently on Asori as she and Dreyf descended the ramp. "Welcome aboard Lusankya." She had a brisk Coruscanti accent, one that Asori found oddly reassuring, despite the woman's somewhat brusque tone. "What in the nine hells is this all about?" the Commodore asked.

Asori opened her mouth to answer, but found that Mirax stopped on the way out the door to beat her to it. "We're here to talk to Wedge. It's important."

The Commodore didn't respond. She just narrowed her eyes and assessed Asori and Dreyf. Then she nodded once. "Any surprises?" She asked Jade and Skywalker.

Luke shook his head. "We didn't sense anything and all the medical scans for Yerite and other compounds came back clean."

Tabanne's neutral expression softened and she favored the Jedi with a warm smile."Your word is good enough for me, Jedi Skywalker. That and Mirax's access to top-shelf medical tech. We'll probably have to test you two again to make the brass happy, but that can wait. This way." She led them through the silent gauntlet of alien and human troopers to the lift. A few minutes later, they arrived in a stateroom that made even her father's quarters aboard Agonizer look mundane.

The massive "Admiral's Quarters" aboard Lusankya dwarfed some small spaceships, able to host a decent sized party or an absolutely massive officer's briefing. While the walls were inundated with holopicts of warm landscapes, architectural diagrams, and the black-bordered pictures of squadrons of pilots, the center of the room was dominated by a large holo-map, which displayed a mundane map of the galaxy… though Asori noted that Corellia was now in New Republic red.

Two men, both wearing the New Republic's beige and blue Fleet uniforms were talking quietly and looked up as the door opened, but she noticed that only one of them bore a General's rank badge. When Mirax started forward, Asori fell back, more than happy to have Antilles' childhood friend make first contact.

"Wedge! Have you heard anything about Corran?" Mirax's tone was both happy and concerned, and she and Antilles shared a quick embrace.

"Last I heard he was still on Corellia," Wedge confirmed with a grin, "and he's been invited to help set up their defenses. It's quite the story—" Wedge saw the two Imperial officers standing over Mirax's shoulder and stopped. "I'll tell you later." He moved towards her, but stopped again when he saw Luke. A sudden smile blossomed on his face, one that took years of strain away, and he and Luke shared a back-slapping hug. "Luke, do you and Mara ever not get into some kind of trouble?"

"In our defense, Captain Rogriss and Commander Dreyf were looking for Mirax when they happened upon us," Luke said with a laugh. "Not that we didn't get into all kinds of trouble on our own."

"On that note, we need to borrow a shuttle," Mara said from beside him. Mara and Wedge shook hands with the awkwardness of friends of friends, and then she made a sound of discontent when the second General—who Asori realized with surprise was Han Solo—engulfed Mara in a hug. Mara did her best to ignore the embrace, but she did offer Solo a token pat on the back. "We have a sensitive item we want to move to the Jedi Consulate. It seems like the most secure place… we don't want to keep it in any former Imperial facilities, given that our foe is an ex-Emperor's Hand."

Solo made a disgusted sound. "Ever since watching you work on Kessel I've been paranoid about that," he muttered, releasing Mara so he could embrace Luke. "And don't ask, kid. Daala was an academy buddy and Wedge convinced me to come back to the service. Your sister is tolerating it… for now. Eventually she'll get tired of Threepio's cooking, though."

"I'm sure that's not the only thing she misses, Han," Luke said with a laugh.

"It won't be long," Wedge cut in. "Han's just here to help us deal with Admiral Daala. She attacked Coruscant a few days ago and beat up our logistics train pretty well." He looked at Asori and Dreyf with a cool, assessing gaze that reminded her of her father's when she'd done something silly as a child. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

"I'm afraid not," Asori said, "We've been on this mission for weeks."

"As it happens," Dreyf said, "the New Order has cut us out of their information loop. Most of our sources are either very dead or very quiet."

"So you're with Pellaeon," Antilles said slowly. He looked at Mirax, then back at Asori. "Captain…"

"Rogriss, sir. Asori Rogriss," she said. Sure enough, just as Fel had promised her, the General's eyes widened slightly at her name. She could see him suddenly pausing, re-evaluating, and looking closely at her—searching for some familial resemblance, perhaps. Commodore Tabanne, too, hesitated and was now looking at her again. Asori did her best not to fidget under their attention. "I'm here to bring a message from Grand Moff Ferrouz and Baron Soontir Fel."

Antilles froze, turning stiffly in shock. "Excuse me?"

Mirax placed her hand on Antilles' back. "It's true," she said. "Wedge…" Mirax's voice went soft, sympathetic, and Asori could see the way Wedge tensed in response. "I think you should sit down. They have something you should see."

Antilles gazed at Mirax for a long moment, then nodded once. It took Mirax only a few moments to set up the holotable.

It was the same message Asori had seen aboard the Pulsar Skate, but this time she considered Antilles as it played.

She had seen Baroness Fel on a few state occasions, always elegantly coiffured and with her children in tow. Quiet, impeccably behaved children who bore a not inconsiderable resemblance to Antilles, now that she saw him in the flesh.

"Hello, Myri," said the recording of Wedge Antilles' sister, giving a fond, earnest smile "It's been a while. I'm sorry for taking so long to reach out to you, but there really hasn't been a good moment until now. Soontir and I need your help."

* * *

For Wedge, hearing his sister's voice and seeing her face after all the missing years was a punch to the gut, one of mixed pain, relief, and longing. He had only been ten years old when his big sister had left home—very much against the wishes of his parents, Wedge could remember many arguments in those years before she vanished out of his life—and he still saw in her face the much older sister he had adored. He could feel his hands clench into fists at his side as she spoke to Mirax, so easily falling into the big-sister-surrogate role that she had played all those now-long-ago years before.

"These officers are looking for you because they know that you can get to Wedge, Myri," his big sister said. "That's the extent that I've told anyone who you are. Please help them do that, for all our sakes." Then Syal took a deep, bracing breath—but of course, she had been a professional actress, one of the best, and the gesture of gathering strength could easily be feigned—

"Wedge," she said softly, and Wedge could not believe that the expression of pain, relief, and longing that passed over her features was any more feigned than his own. "Wedge, I'm so sorry."

He could feel all the eyes on him. Luke was the one to react, because of course he was. The two of them had been through the war together, been packed into closets hardly big enough for one, and they had fought the Empire with whatever sticks and rocks were close at hand. The Rogues were the closest things Wedge had to family other than Syal, and he and Luke had been the first Rogues. Luke stepped in close, not touching Wedge, but just being present for him. He was faintly aware of Mirax, his sister in all but blood, taking tentative steps to his other side.

"I don't regret leaving home," his big sister said. "I do regret what it did to you. Soontir told me about his time with the Rogues, the conversations you had. I knew when I left home it would hurt you, but I thought… I certainly didn't know that you would lose Mom and Dad so soon after I left. I thought you had died with them. I mourned you. I didn't realize you were still alive until I saw the wanted posters after Yavin, and I'm so sorry it's taken me this long to reach out to you, and that the reason for this message isn't just because you're my little brother and I love you, but because I'm Baroness Fel and you're General Antilles. I'm so sorry that this whole message is going to be paraded in front of every Imperial intelligence officer and every member of the Republic Senate before this is over."

His sister took a breath. She looked so much older than he remembered her, older even than she had looked in her last holofilms. "You're an Uncle," she said. "Four times over, even. Chak, Cherith, Cem, and Jagged."

Wedge bowed his head and shut his eyes when he heard his father's name.

"I've taken the liberty of enclosing some of their holos in the message. I suppose it goes without saying that Soontir and I are still very much in love and as happy as time and the galaxy permit. And in a way, I suppose that makes us foes, because despite everything Soontir and I are still tied to the Empire, and you are an icon of the New Republic. But I'm hoping this message can help start to bridge that divide."

Syal bowed her head, his pose mimicking Wedge's own. It reminded him eerily of their mother, deep in thought. Something they had either learned or inherited from her.

When Syal resumed speaking, there was a difference in her tone. A dialect that reminded Wedge of his own, the unique Corellian twang that belonged to the children of Corellia's many orbital platforms, faded into something crisper, the aristocratic Coruscanti of Baroness Fel. "The New Order is determined to destroy us both, little brother. Grand Moff Ferrouz is an Imperial, that is undeniable, but you will find that the Empire he and Soontir intend to build is one that the New Republic would accept as a legitimate peer. They have already abolished legalized discrimination against non-humans within their territories. Captain Rogriss will fully brief you on the other changes they intend to make later.

"The New Order has committed many atrocities during its existence. Alderaan. Caamas. Deyer. Dantooine. We are their next target." In his sister's eyes, Wedge could see her pleading, not with the Senators who would see this next, but with him personally. Your sister. Her children. They are the New Order's next target. "They have already attempted to destroy us once, but their attempt failed in large part thanks to the bravery and skill of Captain Rogriss."

Asori Rogriss stirred uncomfortably.

"Soontir and I have no doubt they will try again. They cannot allow us to remain as we are. We are an example to all who still live in the New Order that things can be different and better. That is intolerable for the New Order. While we won the last battle, we may not win the next one. Their attack demonstrated an ability to construct and field droid starfighters in huge numbers. This was not enough to defeat us the last time, but that may no longer be the case the next time. And, of course, we both know that once they have finished us, they will come for you, next."

Syal Antilles, stage name Wynssa Starflare, had played the acceptably bold love interest-turned-strong wife in Imperial performance after Imperial performance, but none compared to this one.

"So, it's best we end their threat together. With the end of the New Order, so ends the war that has plagued this galaxy for so many years."

That was deliberately vague, the corner of Wedge's mind that was still the General thought deeply, pulling everything Baroness Fel said from a dozen different angles. The Empire still grouped the Rebellion against Palpatine's rule as part of the "Clone Wars" on official documents. To COMPNOR, all the resistance to Palpatine's authority—both Old Republican and Imperial—was all one enormous, decades long plot against galactic order. The New Republic, by contrast, defined them quite clearly as independent conflicts. The speechwriters who had prepared Syal's script were very careful parsing those lines.

His sister was an actress. One who had skillfully played so many roles.

Wedge didn't care. He knew his sister and he knew the difference between Wynssa and Syal. This was Syal.

"I love you, Wedge. Stay safe, please. Please. We haven't had a chance to be a real family in so many years, and that's my fault. It is my fault. I am so, so proud of you. I love you. Stay alive and we'll find each other again."

The message died quietly, light rays folding into dark.

Wedge clenched his fists. Luke's hand was warm on his back, and Mirax tucked in against his side. The two Imperials still stood far back, respectfully silent, but even Mara had come closer.

"Very well," he said, in the cool, collected voice of General Antilles, because Wedge still didn't have one. "Han, call your wife. Tell her that we have something that the Inner Council needs to see. Atril, prep a shuttle. We're going directly there."

Atril managed the controls of the sleek New Republic shuttle herself, bringing it expeditiously down towards the Senatorial Skyhook. While their party was small, she, General Antilles, and General Solo were more than qualified to fly a Lambda, and in order to prevent more people from finding out about Captain Rogriss and Commander Dreyf—and the offer they carried for the New Republic—they had minimized the party. Atril would have just come herself, but Han lived on the Skyhook and his wife would be meeting them, so he had invited himself along.

She forced herself not to look back at the pair of Imperials sitting quietly behind them. Their uniforms were impeccable and they carried themselves with the same appearance of professionalism that Atril expected from officers in the Imperial Starfleet… but Atril knew better than most that appearance was all too often only skin deep. At the same time, though, Atril found herself wanting the two Imperials to be here for purely honest reasons. Wedge's stark reaction to the holo of his sister and Fel, and his clear desire to be reunited with them and their family, was one reason. Another was simply what it would mean for the war, because it was suddenly possible, perhaps even probable, that the war could be over soon. Pellaeon and the New Republic working together could no doubt destroy the New Order.

Atril had her own personal sympathies, though. She had been a prisoner of Asori's father, Admiral Teren Rogriss, and he had lived up to his reputation for honorable conduct… including going above and beyond his responsibilities to protect her life and the lives of her captured crew when his superiors had ordered their execution. Asori didn't look exactly like her father—clearly, in appearances she took primarily after her mother, her face less angular and more rounded—but she carried herself with the same sense of bantam-weight aggressiveness that old Admiral Rogriss did. Without some of the good-natured humor—even when he had been interrogating her, Admiral Rogriss had been quick with a smile and a light-hearted comment—but Atril supposed that, under the circumstances, she wouldn't really expect the younger Rogriss to be quite so relaxed.

Commander Dreyf, by contrast, never seemed stressed, but his humor tended towards the dryly observational rather than Asori's staid seriousness—even after a turn in Lusankya's exceptional bioweapons lab.

Atril set the shuttle down on the secure landing pad and depressed the landing ramp. Beyond the shuttle, Coruscant's sky was filled with red-orange clouds.

Han was the first one down the ramp, sprinting past Wedge. Below, Atril could hear him talking with his wife, asking something about their children. She gestured at the Imperials. "After you."

Asori nodded at her, stiff-faced, and walked down the ramp. Dreyf flashed her a quick, irrepressible smile and followed. At the bottom, she discovered that Councilor Organa Solo was not alone. Councilors Ackbar, Fey'lya, and Kerrithrarr were there as well; so too was General Cracken, the head of New Republic Intelligence, and General A'Baht, the head of the New Republic's armed forces.

Han and Leia stopped their quiet discussion as the Imperials' boots stepped off the ramp and onto the Skyhook's landing pad. Asori Rogriss' hand snapped up in a greeting salute. "Captain Asori Rogriss. I am here on behalf of Grand Moff Ferrouz."

"We know," Fey'lya drawled, looking utterly unimpressed with the two Imperials.

"General Antilles says you have come with vital intelligence," General Cracken cut in.

"She has," Han said. "So I'd forgo the normal grandstanding and get to the real work."

To Atril's surprise, Asori stepped forward, folding her hands behind her back. "Between what I was told before I left Poln Major and what I saw on Nar Shaddaa, I believe there is a significant threat to both the Empire—the true Empire—and the New Republic. If you'll allow me, Commander Dreyf and I will explain." She nodded at Han. "Thank you, General Solo." To Atril's even greater surprise, Rogriss then turned to her. "And thank you, Commodore Tabanne."

"My pleasure," she said, the words coming instinctively. Atril glanced over the array of senior officials who had come to meet the Imperial, and felt a sudden pang of sympathy for the interrogation—comfortable, polite, and civilized though it would be—that Asori was about to undergo. "Good luck."

"A distinct pleasure to meet you both in the flesh," said Airen Cracken, stepping forward a single, measured pace. He did not offer to shake hands. Instead, he gestured them forward.

Asori's gaze swung over to Cracken, as did Dreyf's. They both paled, as if suddenly realizing that rogue Sith-powered droids, medical scans on the Skate and then aboard Lusankya wouldn't be nearly the most terrifying, invasive, and life-threatening experience they had encountered in the last few days.

"Let's dive in," Cracken said, and smiled.

When Luke and Mara arrived at the Consulate, the dormant Seed in tow, they found a hefty transport already there. Cargo containers, each one containing a large branch attached to a nutrient frame, were carefully rolled down the cargo ramp… and stepping onto the platform felt as if a cold wind suddenly swirled around Luke. The Force, a constant companion, guidance and life, was suddenly absent.

The Ysalamiri, sessile lizards deeply integrated into those tree branches, dampened the effects of the Force around them. It was part of the creature's evolved defenses, a unique ability. With the four creatures, they could create a large space where the Force would remain utterly quiet for a Jedi. Luke only hoped that it worked the same for the Seed.

The two men guiding the lifter droids to place the nutrient frames safely down waved at Luke and Mara as they approached. "Oi," said Chin.

"I don't know what you need these for," said Aves. "And I don't want to. Karrde just said to get to Myrkr, collect some Ysalamiri and get them to Coruscant as quick as possible, so I did." He frowned. "There isn't another C'baoth out there, huh?"

"There's always another one," said Mara.

"Well that's reassuring," muttered Aves.

"We're going to move the frames to the upper level," Mara said. "All the way at the top. We don't want the Ysalamiri's dampening effect to extend down to the meditation rooms and the tower's defenses and armoring should make that the most secure location."

Luke could not feel his fellow Jedi in the Force, but he could see them. Clearly, the effect of the Ysalamiri was as disturbing to them as it was to him—perhaps moreso, since they had never encountered the creatures before. Kiranai Ti was pale and unhappy, while Streen looked somehow more contemplative than normal.

Kam folded his arms across his chest. "I got your message," he said to Mara. "All the consulate's defense droids have been activated and put on high alert. We're ready to secure the object behind the Ysalamir and our droid defenses."

"And the entirety of Coruscant's planetary defenses," pointed out Tyria.

"Good," Mara said. She waved at Chin and Aves. "You heard them. Let's get the Ysalamiri into place."

As Karrde's people and their droids worked to move both the Seed and the Ysalamri to the highest levels of the Consulate, Luke brought the Jedi together. "We recovered a powerful ancient Force artifact," he explained, making sure that each of them understood. "I'm not sure how powerful, but the vision it shared with me on Nar Shaddaa suggests that it could be used to construct an army… or to consume a star."

"Roganda Ismaren wants it," Mara said, her tone stiff.

"Which means we need to be on high alert," Luke agreed. "For now, the precautions we've taken should be enough to secure it, but—" he gestured at himself, Mara, and Kam, the three members of their new Order he considered to be full Jedi "—one of the three of us should be present here at the Consulate for security purposes at all times."

Kam nodded seriously, resting his hand on the lightsaber that hung from his belt.

"I'm going to perform another round of security upgrades," Mara said.

"And I'm going to talk to Wedge to make sure that the orbit above the Consulate is always protected by Home Fleet," Luke agreed. "Our object is just to contain the object until we understand it better. Tionne, I need you to work on the historical record. All the myths we have of the Jedi of the past, all the stories that you know… hopefully something about it is remembered."

Tionne nodded with unusual gravitas. "Of course."

Luke smiled. Mara, Kam, Tionne, Streen, Tyria, and Kirana Ti… they were missing only Corran and Cilghal. "We've been entrusted with this because we are Jedi," he said. "Trust the Force and yourselves."

Chapter Text

Luke Skywalker often woke before the sun rose. Especially when he had the luxury of going to bed early, his eyes would open of their own accord during the cooler morning hours. Even on Coruscant, a world with weather as artificial as everything else, there was a deweyness to certain early mornings that he could sometimes even smell, and that sensation stoked instincts in him that dated back to childhood. The need to rise, to tinker with machinery, to make sure the morning harvest was as prosperous as it could be. On Coruscant there was no harvest, but that didn't mean he couldn't set up the caf-maker in the small kitchen that he and Mara shared in their suite in the consulate so that when she woke—which would occur far later, and with far more aggravated grumpiness—he could have her caf waiting for her.

He was just sitting up when he realized that Mara wasn't laying beside him.

Her place on the bed had a slight indent and residual warmth, so she had been there. Clearly she had woken and been unable to fall back asleep. He reached out in the Force and found her… but her presence had receded from him, shrunk down into a tiny space, as if she was trying to hide from some Inquisitorial assassin. But he didn't feel any physical threat, there was no tingle at the back of his neck that presaged danger, and she didn't reach out through the Force to him to warn him of some imminent danger or nearby foe.

She felt distant and the emotions that he could feel from her were so tangled and knotted that they were hard to interpret. There was some anger in her mind, and at least some of that anger was directed at him. But more than anger was fear. Fear so deep and profound that even with her emotions withdrawn from the Force he could tell that Mara was not just fearful… she was terrified.

Seconds later, he found her on their couch. Her knees were tucked up against her chest, her chin resting against them and her arms wrapped around her shins. Her red-gold hair looked almost black in the predawn dark.

"What's wrong?" he demanded. "Mara, what is it?" He reached out to her with the Force as much as he did with his words and his hands, and even as he dropped to his knees beside the couch, his hand covering hers.

"Do you always think you have to rush in and save someone?" she asked. But her voice hitched midway through.

It was an old jibe and he ignored it as he studied her features and reached out with his heart. He found her locked down tighter than an Imperial excise vault. He had known her for years now… Especially during the last year they had spent as little time separated from one another as possible, growing together, transforming as individuals and as a couple. The only time he had ever seen her anywhere close to this scared had been before they had breached Mount Tantiss, when she had asked him—in all seriousness—to kill her rather than let her become a slave to Joruus C'baoth.

"Mara, talk to me."

He felt her reluctantly relax her defenses and stretch her hand out to take his. She grew in the Force before him, and he could feel the warmth of her mind, which clashed harshly with the coldness of her dread. But, he realized, it wasn't just anger and dread he felt from her now. Fragile hope stoked his own.

She turned his hand over in her grip, drawing strength from the warmth. Slowly she uncurled, putting her legs back under her. "Just… feel this," she said softly. "Use the Force, you tell me what has happened."

He arched his eyebrows and frowned up at her.

She laid his hand over her abdomen. "Don't argue," she instructed. "Please. Just do it. I want an unbiased second opinion."

Confused and baffled, he obeyed. He stretched out with his feelings, probing Mara, looking for a wound, preparing to offer her whatever comfort she needed, to assuage her fears, to help in any way—

He reared back almost as if he had been struck, surprise smashing over him. There, under his hand, inchoate and unformed, he felt potential, and his universe was forever changed.

Mara swallowed, sounding hoarse. "This wasn't my idea. I know neither of us missed our repress meds… this isn't the right time, we have so much to do…" Her tone was full of sorrow, almost plaintive. "I'm not ready for this, Luke."

He took both her hands in his, feeling the crashing wave of all his half-formed hopes lap across them. He tried furiously to let himself think before he spoke. In the end, as he usually did, Luke spoke from the heart. "You're not alone, Mara. I'm not ready for this either. But we have each other, and I know you. I know how deeply you can love."

"What about how deeply I can hate?" Mara shot back bitterly. "I've never had… We've never planned…"

This time Luke thought before he spoke. "If this is what we want, I know you'll be a great mother."

The reality of the words crashed over him even as he spoke them. Mara. A mother. Of his child. Of their child.

In a moment, the bastions and walls blew away and their connection as it always had been, open and warm and pulsing with love. Together the two of them fell into the future. Mara, holding a child, looking into a face that was part of each of them, and still entirely their own. Luke hadn't let himself imagine it—he'd barely been willing to broach the topic of marriage with Mara, much less children—but he'd dreamed about it and he knew that Mara had as well, though Mara's dreams always came with a deeper trepidation.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Mara whispered.

"Repress meds aren't perfect," Luke pointed out.

Her nose wrinkled. "They're not," she agreed sourly. "And I suspect they don't work well at all right after Dathomiri witch fertility rituals." She shook her head. "I've been thinking about nothing else for the last hour, and that has to be it." She started to rise. "I should go kick Kirana Ti's—"

Luke took her wrist in his hand and Mara sighed and sank back down onto the couch without resistance. Then he realized that Mara was staring at him. "You want this. You're glad," she accused him.

She was right. He was. He did. Even as he felt Mara's fear, and even her terror, echoed within himself, they were matched and surpassed by his sudden, towering joy. The abrupt, total commitment to the potential that Mara carried, the unborn life, the child that would be—a commitment that, whatever Mara's anxieties, he could feel matched with her typical ferocious vigor.

"I am," he admitted. "I'm so glad. Mara, will—"

"Luke Skywalker," Mara cut him off before he could get out another syllable, "if you're about to offer me a slugthrower wedding, I swear I'll kill you with one."

He was pretty sure she was joking.

She didn't look like she was joking.

"—we should tell Leia and Han," he finished instead.

"No, absolutely not," Mara said. "Do you know how many people live in their household? Or how many times a day they have to sweep that apartment for bugs? The last thing we need is sludgenews finding out about this! Nobody finds out about this. Nobody." She prodded him hard in the chest. "And don't you dare try to tell me to take it easy. Leia didn't let Han tell her to take it easy, and Mirax hasn't let Corran, and I'm not about to—"

It was his turn to interrupt her, though he didn't do it with words. His lips met hers and he kissed her with all the love and confidence he had. In her. In them. In his family. In the life they had led together these past years, in the life they would lead together—together with the rest of their family—for the rest of their future.

"Together, Mara," he murmured against her lips.

Her arms were around his back, her eyes closed as their foreheads pressed together. "This kind of thing is how we got into this mess," she mumbled. He laughed with her and felt as her fear finally subsided into something that let her share in his joy, and his joy became their joy, and they would figure it out. They would always figure it out. Together.

Now, though, he had to deal with something else, because that sensation was definitely a concerned Leia, probing him through the Force.

Mara sighed and resignedly rested her head against his shoulder. "Why can't you keep a secret for more than five minutes, Farmboy?"

"Since I can't keep a secret anyway," he whispered against her hair, "can we tell Artoo?"

He could practically feel the small, amused smile form on her lips.

Leia was profoundly grateful to have Han back, even just for a few days. His reluctant decision to accompany Wedge on the Corellian campaign had pulled him out of their home and back into military life, something Han had fought for most of his life to get away from. Han's time as a General after Endor had often done that too, but then Leia herself had usually been away also, fighting one diplomatic battle after another, trying to keep the nascent New Republic from spinning completely apart. Now she was well established on Coruscant, in a role that required her to stay on world as much as possible—there was no way for a member of the government's Inner Council to be absent for more than a few days as a time—and though Han had merely moved to temporary quarters on Lusankya, which hadn't even left orbit yet, the distance between them felt chasmic.

His chance to come home for a night, after dropping Captain Rogriss and Commander Dreyf off with the government, had been a precious one. Han had expelled Threepio from the kitchen with extreme prejudice—Leia just hoped he hadn't also deleted the droid's cooking subroutines, because if he had they were going to have to be reinstalled—and once more that had been his space.

The apartment only felt like home when Han was inside it.

She watched him, out cold and breathing softly, adorably next to her in their bed. She had tried to sleep herself, but a persistent sense of unease had nagged at her until a late-night update from General Cracken on her datapad had compelled her to rise from her attempts to sleep, and for the last half-hour she'd been reviewing a transcript of Cracken's interview with Rogriss and Dreyf. That had only fed her anxiety further—Grand Admiral Thrawn had created a secret reserve force in the Unknown Regions? It was everything she had had nightmares about for the last few years, right after cloned Emperors and new superweapons.

But perhaps even that was not as alarming as Leia would have assumed. The New Order had attacked both Pellaeon's forces and the New Republic, and done so with the same TIE Droids. The note that Rogriss carried, signed by Grand Moff Ferrouz, indicated a willingness to conclude a peace under the terms proposed by Grand Moff Kaine. It was clear that Cracken thought the request for peace—and for an alliance against the New Order—was genuine.

Ferrouz's note said that he and the Empire—once he was in control—would accept all of the demands Leia and the New Republic had made of Grand Moff Kaine: The recognition of the New Republic as an equal government. The end of all military operations against territories held by the New Republic. The end of slavery in the Outersector Outer, with verification by New Republic monitors. And, though this had not been a precise demand, even the restoration of the Imperial Senate as a democratically-elected governing body with genuine power to constrain the Grand Moff. Ferrouz's demands in return were more limited than Kaine's had been as well: while Ferrouz wanted amnesty for the men and women under his command, there would be no amnesty for senior officers, Moffs, or ISB agents who had sided against Ferrouz in battle.

The new Grand Moff proposed to eliminate his rivals for power and satisfy the New Republic's desire for justice with the same sure stroke.

If Ferrouz had a personal history of atrocities, it would never have worked. Kaine's proposal for peace might never have gotten over the fact that it came from Kaine, who had been a founding member of both COMPNOR and ISB. Ferrouz, by contrast, had been far from the center of Imperial power, a regional Moff of a well-governed sector with a large, prosperous alien population.

Leia wasn't sure that would be enough for the Inner Council, much less for the Senate at large. She suspected, ultimately, that whether those terms were acceptable would come down to Councilor Kerrithrarr's reaction to them; the Wookiees, as one of the species who had suffered the most under the Empire, carried a lot of weight in such things. But Leia could now see a path forward to peace, and—

She sat up straight, looking away from her notes, her brow furrowing. That was Luke! Through the Force she could feel his sudden alarm, and she reached out with the Force to him. Had something gone wrong with the artifact he and Mara had secured on Nar Shaddaa?

But Luke's alarm wasn't the kind that came during battle. It lacked the acuteness of danger and was more… intensely personal. Was he having a fight with Mara? The two of them hadn't had any major disagreements that Leia knew about and always seemed perfectly at home together, but Mara was… Mara… and Luke could be incredibly stubborn…

Alarm transformed into stunned surprise, surprise so profound that Leia could feel it through the Force even across the great distances between the Senatorial Skyhook in low orbit and the Jedi Consulate on the ground. And then his surprise shifted into a towering joy, married to concerns and anxiety but always with a steady heart of happiness.

Leia blinked. Had Mara just asked him to marry her? Mara had batted away those questions like an angry pitten with a tether-ball, but Leia supposed it was possible. Leia never had any doubt that Mara loved her brother, so maybe now that Mara was established as a Jedi and they'd dealt with the threat on Nar Shaddaa she had decided it was the right time to ask. Or maybe she'd just gotten tired of Leia and Han subtly (or not so subtly) asking. That would explain what she currently felt from Luke.

Maybe this was all for the good, but it was hard to be sure. Concentrating, Leia reached out to him with the Force, extending her mind across the great distances between them. This took exertion, but they had always had an attunement to one another, and she probed him lightly, sure that he could feel her. In response, she felt Luke's dazed acknowledgement, and his return of reassurance. It's all right, his voice almost whispered in her mind.

What is it? she tried to send.

Luke had no words in reply. She could tell, in fact, that he was trying not to reveal exactly what had happened. But his emotions were written in the Force all around him, and abruptly Leia knew exactly what it was that had happened. She had, after all, once before felt almost exactly the same… when she found out she would have twins.

Oh, my stars, she thought, feeling suddenly dizzy. Mara is pregnant.

She sat heavily on the bed, next to where her husband slept, and covered her mouth with her hands, stifling her giggle. Mara is pregnant! She swatted at her husband's chest with sudden, playful enthusiasm.

No result.

She poked him, gently, just under his floating ribs while rubbing the tip of his nose with a single finger, a perfect execution of the 'Mission-Critical-it's-Leia-Get-Up-Now' maneuver.

"Nbwa-? What? Huh? Leia?" Han's drowsy voice came as he groped around, reaching for the side table where he kept his blaster locked away. "What is it? Is everything okay? Is the Empire attacking again?"

Leia's amusement had taken her from giggle to full on guffaw. The sound brought Han around to stare at her. "Leia?" he asked, his tone suggesting sudden speculation that she had been dipping into their liquor cabinet.

She bit her lip. "You should get started on breakfast," she said. "Luke and Mara are coming."

"Here? Now?" Han looked at his chrono. "Leia, it's barely morning. Why would they be coming here? What happened?"

She shook her head, unable to hide her bursting smile. "I can't tell you. Luke needs to."

Han rolled his eyes. "If they're coming over at oh-four-hundred just to tell us they're getting married, I'm gonna kick the kid's ass. It's not like it would be a surprise. That could wait until actual breakfast!"

"Just cook, will you?" She said, and then shook her head with mulish stubbornness, at a plaintive look from her sleepy husband, her grin peeked through her facade of resolve. "I'm not telling."

Han stared at her, then shook his head in bafflement. "Unbelievable. You're lucky you look so good in that robe, Your Worshipfulness," Her husband grumbled.

"No you're lucky I look so good in this robe, laserbrain," Leia shot back.

"Well, yeah. I am."

The phrase Aunt Leia, Aunt Leia, Aunt Leia, might have been racing around her head and her heart, but her husband's lopsided grin was still enough to leave her weak at the knees.

Luke and Mara were later in arriving than Leia had expected, at a time more reasonable for breakfast. The trip between the Jedi Consulate and the Senatorial Skyhook was far longer than the distance between their old apartments in the Imperial Palace, and clearly Luke and Mara had not been in a huge hurry to arrive—and especially did not want to arrive at a time so early it would be disruptive to the Solo household morning routine.

The joke was on them, though. Once they had kids, they'd know that in truth there was no such thing as a reliable routine. Every day was its own adventure.

With Chewbacca back to help look after Jacen and Jaina while Han was with Fifth Fleet, it was less exciting that morning than it was most. Once they were up and moving, Threepio had been charged with looking after the kids (and more importantly, keeping them well away, as the last thing Leia wanted was for them to start pestering Mara with questions about a prospective cousin), which meant that it could be just Luke, Han, Leia, and Mara.

Leia had Winter cancel everything in her planner for the morning, something which had astonished Winter. Leia Organa? Canceling all her work plans? But she had simply nodded, wielded her stylus with the florid flair of a Shadow Guard with a stiletto, and then headed into the office to tend to the duties that she could do without Leia's help—which was most of them, Leia thought. The most important meeting was the one with Asori Rogriss and the Inner Council, but that wasn't scheduled until lunch, which gave Leia some time.

She made sure the caf on the table was the spiced blend that Mara had once said she liked, and then panicked and poured three kinds of non-caffeinated Alderaanian tea. It was expensive, and normally something Leia just kept in her office for dignitaries, but…

Now she, Han, and Chewbacca waited at their kitchen table with bated breath. Han was grumpy and, unlike Leia, he still hadn't quite figured out what this was all about. Leia kind of suspected that Chewbacca had guessed—there was something almost smug about the way he moved, and the Wookiee hadn't stopped grinning since he'd been awakened by Leia and Han's preparations and been told that Luke and Mara were coming.

The chime at the door brought Leia lunging towards it, then stopping and sliding her hands down over her clothes to remove any wrinkles the excited movement had brought.

Han's expression was baffled. "What is this? You're acting like you've never seen your brother and Red before." He pulled the door open and, with a theatrical wave of his arm, invited the pair in. "Welcome back!"

"Thanks, Han," Luke said with a smile.

Mara stepped in after him, removing her jacket. She looked distinctly uncomfortable, which was most unlike her—even when Mara was uncomfortable, she could feign comfort quite well.

Leia and Mara locked gazes, and in Mara's eyes, Leia could see the other woman's disorientation. Her world had just been spun on its axis, her expectations and certainties shifted, and her future changed. Leia sympathized, but Leia and Han had chosen, quite deliberately, to start trying to have children. They had not been a surprise. That was not the case, she knew, for Luke and Mara.

Conscious of the fact that she had herself been beyond irritated at Han and Winter and Threepio's attempts to treat her tenderly during her own pregnancy, she stepped close and took Mara's jacket, hanging it on the nearby coat rack. "Are you okay?" she asked Mara quietly.

Mara nodded tightly, a wordless affirmation.

"I have breakfast on the table, so why don't we all sit down and eat while we can," Han said. "Before Leia and I have to get to the Council meeting with Captain Rogriss and Wedge."

"That's a good idea," Luke agreed. He came close, patting Leia's back. He went to guide Mara to the kitchen, but her sudden determined glower made him back off. She headed towards the kitchen at a brisk pace; the others followed behind.

"So what's this all about?" Han asked Luke, leaning towards him and keeping his voice pitched low. "Leia's been acting weird all morning. I'm not sure she's gotten much sleep."

"Let's eat," Luke said instead of answering.

Chewbacca thwacked Luke's back with a gigantic paw, roaring a welcome.

"Congratulations?" Han asked. "Wait, is that what this is about? Are you getting married?"

Luke squirmed. "Well, no—"

"Well, then…" Han's eyes suddenly went very, very wide, and a knowing grin started to develop on his face. "Oh don't tell me…."

Luke and Mara were standing next to each other now, looking at one another as if sharing some silent, private conversation. Mara sagged and nodded reluctantly, briefly allowing her head to rest against Luke's shoulder. Luke put his arm around Mara's back. "Yes," he admitted shyly. "Mara's pregnant."

Surprise gave way to hugs. Mara and Luke got swept into Chewbacca's massive arms together and were squeezed against the Wookiee's massive, furry chest as Chewie yowled a fervent congratulations. Han batted him away so he could get his own hug in, and found himself ensnared by the Wookiee capturing all three of them at once, an image that Leia promised herself she'd never forget.

Eventually, she had her brother to herself, and she threw her arms around him. "How did this happen?" she asked quietly, a whisper in the hug.

Luke reddened. "Dathomir. The witches were using the Force as part of their planting season rituals and… I didn't realize the potential implications."

She hugged him tighter. He was surprised but joyously happy, as she would have expected. Then she found herself embracing Mara instead, as Han pulled Luke out of her embrace. Unlike Luke, Mara's emotions were not so easy to read. Instead of trying to ferret out Mara's true feelings with the Force, Leia just wrapped her future-sister-in-law (whatever Luke and Mara said, Leia had no doubts) in a hug that would make a wookiee proud. "Congratulations," she whispered.

Over the cacophony that was Artoo excitedly beeping away at Threepio, Leia took a quick breath and the two women paused to listen in.

"A secret? Why I never."

Artoo responded with a blat and a series of scolding whistles.

"Oh do go ahead and tell me, you misfiring bucket of bolts. Yes, of course I promise. No, you don't have to reprogram me! I can too keep a secret!" There was a pause, and they could vaguely hear Artoo's whistles, pitched low. "Mistress Mara is what? Well, at least we still have all the baby things. I shall have to paint a bassinet black I suppose."

Mara started to laugh and actually hugged Leia back, but only after being silent for many seconds. "I have no idea what to do," Mara admitted, her voice thick with uncertainty Leia had only rarely encountered from her.

"That's okay," Leia promised. "That's okay. I'll help, I promise."

Roganda's surveillance of the Jedi Consulate was scheduled to last another week at least, but the droid she'd designated as her aide sent her a message in the middle of the night. Using a Force technique to rid herself of bleary fatigue, she read the message.

SKYWALKER AND JADE DEPARTING CONSULATE.

And with that, she was wide awake. The difficulty was always going to be breaching the Consulate with the two of them there. Skywalker had killed the Emperor and Jade had been a Hand; that made them the only two real threats to her. With them removed, all she would have to deal with was Skywalker's untrained Padawans, and that was something she could do. "How long will they be gone?"

UNKNOWN.

She put her trust in provenance. "Prepare for the assault," she ordered. "Pattern Delta-Aurek, preload variations Five through Eleven. Send the initiation command to the Palace main computer."

ACKNOWLEDGED MISTRESS ROGANDA.

* * *

Kirana Ti swung her spear through a series of ritualistic combat forms. A traditional Dathomiri warrior exercise, it was meant to be practiced in the forest, surrounded by nature… not in a building, surrounded by… buildings. The Jedi Consulate had plenty of plants and even a few animals, especially in the large central spaces, that were tended to by droids, and they made her feel a bit more comfortable, but it was not the same. Still, it was best performed at first light, and while that meant something different on Coruscant where even the darkest night featured plenty of artificial light, it was first light.

Nearby, Streen performed his daily morning meditations, sitting by one of the windows and looking out over the city. She felt him watching her before she noticed it. He gestured at the sitting cushion next to him. "Care to join me?"

Somewhat reluctantly, she set her spear down, and sat cross-legged on the cushion. She had tried this style of meditation, but its stillness and passivity did not come easily to her. The Force, as the witches of Dathomir used it, was more tangible, more knowable, and more predictable than in the practices of the Jedi. Theirs was a more esoteric tradition.

"How many people live on your world, Kirana Ti?" he asked her curiously.

She shrugged, counting the number of tribes she knew of and estimating it. "A few thousand, maybe?"

"A few thousand," Streen said. His hair was brown, streaked with gray, and he had a deeply lined face from many years of exposure to the sun and wind. "Where I am from, there were a few million. Here—" he gestured out at the cityscape "—more than a trillion. Can you feel them all?"

Kirana Ti's lips pressed together. The learning had been a persistent frustration in the short time she had trained as a Jedi. She could feel strong emotions, even a child could do that, but more than that…

"When I was young," Streen murmured, "Everything was always so loud. I traveled into the clouds of Bespin, looking for quiet, and I found peace and riches. Some of the other prospectors would talk of how their intuition would lead them to the right place to find Tibanna, so I started letting mine lead me. Soon, I was finding Tibanna reserves even before the machinery searching for it did… reaching the places it would be, before it was there."

Kirana Ti did not understand, but Streen spoke with such quiet fervency that she leaned closer and listened closely all the same.

"I learned, over time, that I was more successful when I was calm," Streen added. "Clear-minded. Well-fed. Rested. And serene." He sighed. "And then, I realized I was starting to feel other things too: I could feel the people around me. Know they were there. It became harder to be clear-minded because my mind was not alone. I could feel emotions, good and bad, and it was impossible for me not to feel them. Then, when the Empire took Cloud City, everything got much worse. The people were agitated, their thoughts full of chaos. Noisy and ugly." He shook his head bitterly. "I had to be alone."

Such was known on Dathomir, too, Kirana Ti thought. She remembered the sisters who had chosen to live alone, without husbands. Many of them had fallen and become Nightsisters, but others still lived apart. Many others, those most sensitive, learned with time to dull their senses, so as to not be overwhelmed.

"Piloting massive barges of explosive gas through lightning storms above Bespin is much more relaxing than listening to people on Coruscant. Even if Mara taught me how to control how much I feel," Streen continued with a smile. "And Luke taught me that this empathy was a blessing, not the curse I thought it to be. A Jedi acts on behalf of the Force, and the Force is life. One way the Force guides us is through the feelings of others. Their hopes and dreams and fears… if a Jedi is to be a true servant of life, we must understand these things." He offered her a wry, weathered smith. "And not be overwhelmed by them. Close your eyes."

"All right," she agreed curiously. She settled into a more comfortable sitting position and did so.

"Empty your mind," Streen encouraged. "Of all thoughts of self, of fear and desire. Feel all the minds of Coruscant, all the lives, the trillions. So many. Remember that the Force is created by all life, and that we are a part of the Force, and it of us. Let them guide you to where you need to be. Listen."

She tried, but she found none of the calm that Streen described. Instead, a gnawing anxiety chewed at her gut, one she couldn't put a name to. Her eyes popped open; she saw on Streen's face a similar expression to her own. "Maybe we should try again later," he suggested tiredly, pulling himself to his feet.

She popped up, grabbing her spear and strapping it to her back. "Perhaps we're hungry," she suggested with false cheer. She adjusted her armor, making sure it sat properly on her sinewy frame.

"I'm not yet Luke's equal as a teacher," Streen said with a self-deprecating smile, "but I'm not a bad cook."

Kirana Ti wasn't sure why, but she found herself hurrying Streen a bit, moving them both deeper into the building.

Barely ten seconds later the windowed alcove they had been sitting in exploded.

Chapter Text

One of the last structures that remained from Palpatine's Imperial Palace was the Palace Security Operations Center. The tower spiraled up, one of the ring of semi-dismantled towers that had been built around the central Palace Complex. Lieutenant Caston Nalle, Palace Security, had an excellent view of the ongoing deconstruction efforts. Massive cranes and construction droids busily worked to dismantle the towers that remained. Soon, they would turn their attention to Security Ops—but not just yet.

His fresh cup of morning caf steamed on the desk in front of him as he reviewed the collection of reports from the day before. "Have they found that missing construction supervisor yet?" he asked.

Corporal Corde Brandes, the only other person in the tower, shook her head. "No, sir. I've requisitioned another team to go looking."

"We didn't see any signs of explosions, did we? No other minor disasters or booby-traps?"

"None have been logged."

He frowned. People didn't just go missing from the Imperial Palace.

"Do you think the Empire sent an infiltration team?" Brandes' voice was cautious and carried more than a little caution.

"It's possible," Caston mused. "But the real question is why would they? We have stumbled across a few additional hidden facilities, like the one we found in Tower Fourteen, but nothing as elaborate as that one." His lips pressed together unhappily. "That doesn't mean, though, that there isn't one. And if there is…"

"Yes, sir," Brandes agreed unhappily. "Maybe we should report this to Intelligence?"

"I already sent up a flare," he said. "They just asked to be kept updated. Bringing in more security is really all we can do until we know more—"

The lights in Security Ops suddenly dimmed. His console screen flashed red with an alert, persistent and demanding. "We're under attack!" His hand slammed down on the alert button on his desk, then on his comm. "This is Palace Security! Our systems are reporting an orbital assault! Multiple starfighters on strafing runs, escorting troop transports!"

Brandes' eyes were wide, staring at her console. "Where did they come from!" she gasped. "The entire fleet is here, and we've got multiple layers of air defenses!"

But the computers insisted they were there. Even as Caston watched, two TIE fighter signatures came in for a strafing run, straight through the teeth of the planet's protective guns. Completely unscathed, they raced straight towards him and Corde, and with a pained grunt he grabbed the Corporal and threw them both under a semi-armored console.

* * *

On the bridge of the Star Destroyer Lusankya, Atril Tabanne watched as the ship's repairs continued. Captain Kre'fey supervised the repair crews with a gimlet eye as they swarmed over the ship's hull, patching the weaknesses in armor from impact damage and replacing destroyed turbolaser batteries.

She was pacing along the bridge's long walk, wondering how things were going with Captain Rogriss and the Inner Council, when Commander Needa yelped with alarm. "Systems alert!"

Kre'fey, typically, was first to respond. "What kind of systems alert?"

"I don't … know sir!" called back Needa. Even as he did, Lusankya's alarms started to blare, demanding the crew stand to battle stations. "Multiple hostile Star Destroyers!"

"What?" Atril and Kre'fey said together. "Another group of cloaked ISDs?'' asked Atril.

They converged at Needa's station as Lusankya came to life, crew bringing up the bridge shields and guns with a weary belligerence.

"I don't know sir!" Needa called, sounding confused. "They're in orbit! It's like they were already there!"

"They can't have been there," Kre'fey pointed out. "We would have noticed them. Or they would have hit something."

"Yes sir!" Needa's hand was on his ear. "We're getting comms from the rest of the fleet, sir! Other ships are reporting they are getting the same readings! Confirmation from Golan-5, Golan-7, Freedom, and Emancipator!"

"All ships, bear on the enemy!" Kre'fey demanded. "Break us free from the repair station at once! Fighters, scramble, repeat, scramble!"

Atril stared at the console. From all appearances, no fewer than five Imperial-class Star Destroyers were in low orbit over the old Imperial Palace—low enough that even raising the planet's shields wouldn't be enough to protect it from them. TIE fighters were already scrambling—so far without opposition—and darting down over the planet to attack. If those fighters got in before they could be intercepted, even a few strafing runs could do devastating damage to the dense urban canyons…

"Captain Irrarel reports Orthavan sees no enemy ships," Needa called, sounding even more confused. "She is requesting instructions."

"How can we see them but she can't?" Kre'fey demanded furiously. "Either they're there or they're not!"

"Weapons HOLD!" bellowed Atril. "I want visual confirmation on the Star Destroyers! Now! Someone fetch a pair of macrobinoculars!" She pointed at Needa's console. "And run a diagnostic on the main computer!" She looked at Kre'fey, who stared back, his eyes widening with dawning understanding. "Lusankya, Emancipator, Freedom, and the Golans," she explained. "All Imperial-built with Imperial-built main computers…"

* * *

Nalle and Brandes hit the ground with a heavy thunk, one that sent a spasm of intense pain through Nalle's old combat wounds. He reeled as his leg collapsed under him, knowing that it would not be easy to stand up quickly. But then, it wouldn't matter… not if those fighters fired on the tower with him and Brandes in it…

Nothing happened.

No scream of TIEs overhead, no detonations, no explosion, just… nothing.

"Where did they go?" he panted the words out, gritting his teeth through the pain.

Leaving him under the table, painfully trying to get back to his feet, Brandes popped up and was back at her station in an instant, reaching down a hand for her boss. Her tone was half surprised, half-wry. "According to the computer, we're dead, sir."

"What do you mean, we're dead?" he asked—frustrated, angry, and hurting.

"That's what the system says. We've been killed in a strafing run." He could hear the way her voice changed, going from amused to grimly serious. "And we've been locked out, too. Apparently the computer thinks we're dead and is treating us as if we are dead."

He was up on one knee, which was enough that he could see her poised at her station. "Check for—" he groaned, his bum knee trembling under him, "—check to see if there are any programs running."

She nodded, her head bobbing. With impressive, hard-earned familiarity with the computer system, she forced a hard reset of her terminal. "There's a program running," she reported grimly, once she had brought up the debugging system. "It's an old one. I thought our slicers cleared everything out... the computer thinks the Emperor is still alive and that Imperial Center's defense fleet is attempting a coup." Her expression was grim. "And it's not just our computer."

This time, the roar of engines was real. Back on his feet, Lieutenant Nalle could only watch as the midsized transport launched from Tower Eight—not far from where that construction tech had gone missing, he realized belatedly—and his comm said he was dead and refused to let him tell anyone.

One of the benefits of living in a skyhook, Leia thought, was the view. She and Mara were sequestered in a semi-secluded corner of the Solo family apartment, behind a leafy tree of Alderaanian origin. Alderaan had been known for many things, but one of its defining characteristics had been its floating cities. Built over many centuries, those cities had loomed above Alderaan's towering mountain ranges. At first, they had been centers for mining, like Cloud City on Bespin, but as Alderaan's mineral resources dwindled and the world's population grew weary of the environmental costs of their extraction, the cities had become centers for culture, governance, and education.

The two of them sat together, looking out over Coruscant.

"I feel like I should ask you how you're feeling about all this, are you okay?" Leia asked.

It wasn't the first time, and Mara's expression of pained tolerance communicated that she was quite aware of the repetition. The twins had awoken—attracted, Leia suspected, to the three Force sensitives and the intense emotion of the moment—and had been a welcome distraction from that emotion. Han was busy coaxing them to leave Mara alone and eat while Leia took Mara to sit in quiet isolation, drinking in the view of the galactic capital.

To Leia's dismay, Mara's anxiety seemed to be getting worse, rather than better. "Yeah," Mara said, unconvincingly. After an uncomfortable pause, she continued, "but the more I think about it, the more…" Mara's voice trailed off, as if admitting discomfort or weakness of any kind was unacceptable.

"Nervous?"

Mara hesitated again, then shook her head. "No. I was already nervous. But I have this… premonition of dread. Like something has gone wrong." Unconsciously, Mara tucked her legs in closer against her chest, looking absurdly young in that moment—Leia had to remind herself that for all Mara's experience, or all her world-weariness, she was younger than the Skywalker twins.

"I had that too, when I was pregnant," Leia admitted. It was her turn to hesitate now, debating how much to share… but this was Mara. Mara was Luke's life partner—of that, Leia had absolutely no doubt—and therefore, she was Leia's sister. She trusted Mara… and Mara needed her. "After I found out that Vader was my father, I decided I'd never have children," she admitted. "Eventually I changed my mind, but during the pregnancy I had a few dark moments."

Mara's lips pressed together. "I'm not worried about that," she replied, and Leia was surprised at the confidence in her voice. "Really, I'm not. But I still have this sense…" her voice faded away and her expression tightened. She turned towards the transparisteel, looking down towards the city, where in the distance the Senate Dome and what was left of the Imperial Palace—most of its towers disassembled and the original, boxy structure it had been built atop increasingly apparent—could be seen.

In the Force, sudden fear spiked. Instantly Mara was uncoiled and on her feet.

"What is it?" Leia asked, alarmed.

"I don't know—"

The emergency alarm had sounded days before, during Daala's hit-and-fade assault on Coruscant. Now it blared again, cutting straight through Leia with skull-splitting urgency. The lights of the skyhook instantly darkened, red alert signals glowing atop every door as if a hull breach had been detected.

Mara batted away the massive leaves of the Alderaanian plant as she charged into the kitchen, Leia following on her heels. Luke was there with Han, both of them wearing matching expressions of confused alarm. "What in the Nine Corellian Hells is going on?" Han yelled, his arm around a suddenly-crying Jacen and Jaina. "Is Daala attacking again? And someone shut that off!"

From the door, Artoo's whistle was barely heard over the alarm, but a few seconds later the alarm cut out.

Leia was already at her computer terminal. The screen was remarkably unhelpful and the words upon it sent a new chill through her. REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE, it instructed. IMPERIAL AUTHORITIES WILL ARRIVE TO SECURE THE SENATE.

"The door is locked," complained Han as he tested the front door controls. "What is going on?"

Winter came in from the office, her expression pale. "All communications are out. Do you know what's going on? Is Daala attacking again?"

Mara gently shouldered Leia out of the way; she moved to the side as the former-Emperor's Hand started typing override commands rapidly into the computer. It took her a few minutes, but eventually more useful information appeared. None of the words made any sense. PARAMETER: ATTEMPTED COUP AGAINST EMPEROR PALPATINE. SENATORS UNDER SUSPICION OF AIDING THE COUP ATTEMPT. GRAND MOFF TARKIN UNDER SUSPICION OF AIDING THE COUP ATTEMPT. INSTRUCTIONS: CONFINE SENATORS. CONFIRM TARKIN'S COMPLICITY AND TAKE APPROPRIATE ACTION. COMPNOR AUTHORITIES WILL ASCERTAIN LOYALTIES BASED ON PERFORMANCE.

"Tarkin!?" Leia said, staring in disbelief at the screen. "What is this?"

"It's a drill," Mara said grimly. "You didn't replace all the computers on Coruscant?"

Leia gave her an infuriated, disbelieving look. "How would we do that? What is going on?"

"It's an old program," Mara explained. "I had Ghent and Cracken's people on this, none of these should still be in the computer systems… It's a drill, one meant to stress-test COMPNOR's responses against a potential coup by Tarkin and the Starfleet against Palpatine's rule." She continued typing furiously. "What set—"

Mara's face abruptly went pale, her green eyes wide. She turned to look at Luke, and Leia saw the moment that Luke realized the same thing Mara had. Her brother's expression was suddenly dire, and that same sensation of dread instantly swept over Leia.

"The Consulate," Mara whispered in horror.

"Tell Wedge to get ships into position over the Consulate," Luke demanded of Han.

"The Emperor's Hand," Leia murmured, feeling her own blood run cold as she put the pieces together herself. "This is Roganda staging an attack!"

"I can't get any communications out," Han said with a shake of his head. "Everything is jammed. Even if the drill isn't restricting the comms, everyone on the planet is trying to make a call right now. The net is completely overwhelmed. There are millions of panicked people out there right now and no one telling them what to do."

Leia turned back towards the window she and Mara had been sitting beside. Through it she saw Coruscant's orderly streams of traffic grow panicked and frenetic. High above the aerial traffic, the Super Star Destroyer Lusankya was stirring to life, and many other warships were clearly on high alert, starfighters starting to swirl from CAP patterns into precise combat deployments.

"We need to get back to the Consulate before it's too late," Mara said, her tone one of dire certainty.

Luke tested the door again. It didn't budge. He looked towards Leia, and she understood instantly what he was asking.

Han was still holding a fearful Jacen and Jaina. Leia knelt down in front of the twins and held up her unlit lightsaber. "Sweeties, who wants to see your Uncle Luke and Aunt Mara break some doors?"

Han and Winter held the twins, three sabers ignited, and the Jedi demolished the Solo Apartment's front door.

Roganda's transport lifted off from the Imperial Palace hangar. Under normal circumstances, the launch of a transport as large as hers would have been an unmissable event. With the chaos unfolding all over the planet, and in orbit above it, the launch went entirely unnoticed. The people best located to see the launch—those in the Palace Security office—had been "killed" in the initial wave of the coup simulation, and it would take them some time to get their systems unlocked to warn anyone else… assuming they had noticed at all.

Being the Emperor's Hand, she knew all of Palpatine's secrets. The most important of those was the secret of the Silencer AI he had given her, of course, though the hidden caches of DT-droids she had programmed were a close second. Further down the list, but still important, was the secret of the override codes that Palpatine had buried in every computer constructed while he was Emperor.

The Rebellion had tried to protect itself against those override codes. Teams of technicians had developed software patches intended to prevent computers from doing things like overloading reactors, firing turbolasers, deactivating shield generators, or initiating hyperspace jumps at inopportune times. They were even making plans to outright replace compromised main computers, completely removing any vestiges of Palpatine's influence, but replacing a main computer—especially in something like a Star Destroyer—was difficult, time consuming, and expensive; the New Republic could not afford to take their most powerful units out of action, so the software patches had to suffice, and such refits would have been noted by Imperial Intelligence.

Roganda had thus opted for a more subtle approach. While in the Imperial Palace she'd been able to access both Palace Security's main computer—yet to be replaced, since the entire palace was being demolished anyway—and its HoloNet connection.

From there, she used her credentials as Emperor's Hand to schedule a drill.

Every warship in orbit with an Imperial-built main computer now believed that a fleet of Star Destroyers and their traitorous Admirals and crews were attempting to overthrow Emperor Palpatine. So too did the planet's Golan defense platforms, the manufacturing facilities, and—most critically—all the local precincts of the Coruscant constabulary. The constabulary in particular was currently receiving orders to suppress possible mass uprisings; loyal Star Destroyers were being called upon to attack the traitors, and all of them were being shown imaginary enemies and being told about imaginary events:

A bomb threat at the Imperial Museum.

The orbital bombardment of the ISB facility nearest to the Imperial Senate by traitorous elements of the Imperial Starfleet.

The strafing of both the Imperial Palace and the primary surface starfighter garrisons.

Dozens, hundreds of others.

None of them were real, but nobody knew that. The population of Coruscant was panicking and when a trillion people panicked, it made quite a mess. She wasn't sure how long it would take the New Republic to sort out the mess, but she was confident it would be long enough.

Especially since the program wasn't done causing panic yet.

Her transport's main computer beeped insistently at her. BY ORDER OF THE IMPERIAL SECURITY BUREAU, THIS VEHICLE MUST LAND IMMEDIATELY. The line of airspeeders it was in came to a sudden halt as all of their traffic computers started seeking landing locations. LAND OR BE FIRED UPON.

Hers was not the only vehicle receiving that order. The neat line of ships in Coruscant's sky came to a sudden halt. Some vehicles stayed where they were, blocking traffic. Others started to try to land. Still others started to make for orbit.

Roganda overrode the autopilot and veered towards her target. She could see the Jedi Consulate out the window of her transport. She was surrounded by consternation and fear as Coruscant's populace tried to figure out what was happening. Roganda drank it in deep and reveled in their terror. Then she sighted the Consulate with the ship's hidden concussion missile launcher and fired.

* * *

Transparisteel shattered, sending jagged shards of transparent material slashing into the meditation chambers. Streen stumbled as one of those shards sliced through his Jedi robes, and Kirana Ti felt multiple shards impact her back as she ducked to protect her head. She was thankful that she had insisted on wearing her leather armor. Grabbing Streen with both hands, she thrust him into the protective shadow of one of the meditation benches in the center of the room.

"What happened?"

Streen was wide-eyed, with surprise and sudden fear. His expression was wrenched with pain, and Kirana Ti checked his wounds, but found none of them were particularly deep. "Where are you hurt?" she demanded.

He shook his head, his mouth working silently. "I'm fine," he panted eventually. "But the city… can't you feel that?"

She had no idea what he was asking. "No," she said, reaching to pull her spear into cover with them, grabbing the handle at the end and snaking it through the debris. She could hear the sounds of repulsorlifts through the shattered window, of vehicles idling or racing around, as if in some kind of panic. "What?"

"I haven't felt anything like this since Vader took Cloud City," Streen said, his expression dire. "People are terrified… I think the whole planet is under attack…"

There was nothing Kirana Ti could do about that. Whether Streen was right or not, she knew the Consulate was under attack… and Luke and Mara had given very specific instructions that the artifact they'd secreted away in the temple vault should be kept protected at all costs. She crouched, preparing to lurch into motion.

The sound of repulsorlifts grew louder, almost overpowering. She hadn't realized just how much sound the now-shattered windows had kept out of the serene temple environment. She risked poking her head over the couch to see what was happening, and saw a midsized freighter descending towards the temple's landing pads. Its landing ramp was open, and standing on it were a number of dark-armored figures with blaster rifles. "Imperials."

Streen shook his head in stunned disbelief. "How could Imperials be here, now?" he asked, sounding equal parts astonished and fearful. "How?"

"Stay down, manling," she ordered him. Even if he had not been wounded, he was no fighter. If the Imperials were after the artifact, they would not be coming to this room anyway and he'd be safe here. Leaving him, she ran low to the central core of the building.

The core of the building was hollow, with stairs and lifts that took people up and down. She could look up and see the peaked roof a half-dozen stories above them, semi-transparent to allow some of the morning-sun to provide the building with natural light. She could also look down to the landing pad floor. While the building continued downwards for many more levels, that floor was entirely filled in, giving it the illusion of being a ground floor—something which Kirana Ti appreciated, because when she thought about how high they really were, she got quite dizzy.

Crouched with her spear, she heard the sound of blaster fire resonate through the open air. The Consulate's defenses were kicking into action, and combat droids and fixed defenses were both opening fire. From her position above, she could see blasts of red and green cross-crossing through the large vestibule that opened to the northernmost landing pad.

* * *

Roganda stood within her transport, watching as her DTs demolished the Consulate's defenses. She'd lost four units, but their heavy armor had absorbed plenty of fire before they had succumbed to damage, and their counterpart units had turned the fixed defenses to slag.

A quartet of droids moved rapidly through the vestibule, their metal feet clicking softly over the tile. In the center of the space was a statue; and with some surprise, Roganda noted that the statue was dedicated to the Antarian Rangers.

Her mind abruptly full of memories of Belsavis and a dozen other last stands of Jedi refugees and their protectors, she waited until the DT units announced the floor was secure. Wordlessly, she keyed tactical directives into her wristcomm, telling them to storm the upper floors. Roganda knew that she had only so long to secure the Seed before the chaos she had unleashed on Coruscant was resolved.

It was here. She knew it was here. She would not be denied, not again.

Using her wristcomm, she instructed her aerial support to engage.

In an instant, a half-dozen droids drones soared out of concealed hatches on the hull. Each one was suspended by a disc-like repulsor ring and bristled with blasters. They swarmed up and through the smashed in windows, looking for targets.

"Make sure all communications are jammed," she reminded the droid she had designated her aide, who she had renamed DT-130 for the sake of simplicity. "This is a smash and grab. We want to get to our objective and out as quickly as possible. The faster we are, the easier it will be to escape the planet."

* * *

Streen's cry of alarm sent Kirana Ti spinning back around. She had seen flying ships before, but flying droids were something entirely new to her. They were so small! But despite her unfamiliarity with them, the combination of her danger sense and her common sense meant she recognized them instantly as threats.

There were two of them, beeping and whirring. Gray and black metallic armor, with angular red eyes and bodies rotating towards her!

She charged.

The first droid's blaster fire went high as she slid over the smooth tile of the Consulate floor, like she was dodging under a particularly energetic woofa fighting for its life with an array of Dathomiri tribesmen. Bursts of energy shot over her shoulder and she came up out of her slide with an athletic thrust. The head of her spear grazed the droid she was targeting; her accuracy was foiled by the droid's sudden defensive retreat, bobbing higher and back in the air. She pursued with an additional thrust—

She hadn't expected her second effort to make contact, but it did. She realized, a second later, why the second had been successful while the first had not. Streen, laying on the couch, wincing from his earlier wounds and at least one blaster burn, had gripped the droid and held it still with the Force. Her spear—which, despite appearances, had been constructed with modern alloys—drove through the floating droid's thin armor and left it sparking as it sank to the floor.

The second droid was coming and her spear was lodged too deep in the first to retrieve. Releasing it she rolled backwards, dodging a pair of incoming blaster bolts, but that was when she heard the harmonized hum of a lightsaber nearby.

"Why don't you pick on someone your own size."

The droid heard it too. Its blaster-cluster pivoted away from her and Streen, reorienting to aim at the new arrival standing in the entrance to the meditation chamber. Tyria Sarkin nearly floated on the balls of her feet, poised and ready, and as the shots came in she wove her green blade in a perfect defensive pattern, batting away the incoming fire with focused determination as her blond braid swung in her wake.

As the droid and Tyria engaged in a furious exchange, Kirana Ti remembered what Luke had taught her and stretched out with her mind for her spear. Getting a solid grip on her weapon with the Force, she tore it free from the first droid's machinery. She snatched it out of the air and with it in hand she turned to help Tyria face the second.

The droid's blaster swiveled back towards her, apparently deciding that shooting at a target armed with a lightsaber was less wise than shooting at a target armed with a spear. She dodged the first two bolts, but the third caught her on the side and sent her sprawling. Her hide-armor outfit dissipated much of the energy, but she still lost her footing and spiraled to the ground, only half-catching her fall

Tyria leapt. Trained as a ranger from the time she was young, she moved well—though it was obvious to Kirana Ti that the lightsaber was still a weapon with which she was still gaining expertise. Despite that unfamiliarity, the tip of her blade clipped through the droid, which fell like a sparking, fizzling brick to the floor.

Breathing heavily, Kirana Ti pulled herself to her feet, smelling the roasting armor and wincing around the pain

"Status?" Tyria asked, her voice a flat-affected channel for information.

"Wounded," Kirana said, twirling her spear, "but lightly. Ready to fight." Streen just moaned and clutched at his injury, and Kirana Ti cursed herself for not anticipating the flying droids.

As Tyria moved towards Streen, she pulled bacta and bandage-gel from a pouch at her belt and set to work, giving an assessment of their situation as she worked. "There are droids marching up from the landing pad and all our comms are jammed," Tyria reported grimly. "Tionne and Kam are somewhere in the building, but other than that there isn't anyone else here. Luke and Mara left early this morning, I'm not sure why. I don't know how long our defenses can hold off their battle droids."

"Corran… isn't here?" wheezed Streen.

Tyria shook her head again. "He's still somewhere on Corellia. Cilghal is on Mon Calamari. It's just us, Kam, and Tionne."

"Well where are they?" Streen muttered, cursing under his breath in pain.

"They're coming," Tyria said. "Rest assured."

Kirana Ti's spear was a trusty weapon, but it would be little help in this fight. She raised the weapon to a guard position anyway.

Tyria eyed it. "We need something heavier than what we've got," she said. "Come on. Mara's armory isn't far."

* * *

Tyria watched as the other Jedi hastily armed themselves with the weapons that Mara had in the Jedi armory. Weapons of every type were carefully arranged, each one with guides for proper use conditions and maintenance requirements. Just like the droids that Luke and Mara had purchased to defend the Consulate—sourced from Talon Karrde—they were of the highest quality, and chosen based on ease of use and flexibility.

She wasn't surprised as Kirana Ti changed her spear out for a standard-issue stormtrooper E-11. The Dathomiri witch was uncomfortable with most of the elements of Coruscanti life, but the galaxy's weapons had long since made their way to her homeworld and she clearly knew exactly how to use one. Streen armed himself too, but with far less confidence—unlike Kirana Ti and Tyria herself, he was no fighter. "Just stay behind us," she encouraged him.

He nodded with obvious assent. "That sounds like a good idea," he agreed nervously—

The Consulate rocked and a thunderous boom echoed from the upper levels. Paint fluttered down from the ceiling, stone shuddering, and a second boom followed the first. The sounds of blaster fire echoed down through the structure.

"They've found Kam and Tionne," Tyria said with grim certainty.

She and Kirana Ti sprinted ahead, each holding one of Mara's blaster rifles. A handful of the battle droids were watching the stairs above and they both fell to one knee behind a meditation couch, firing over the limited protection it offered. Through the Force—as limited as her own abilities were—Tyria could feel Kirana Ti's intent, and the two of them blasted one then the other, twinned blaster bolts converging and blasting through armor. The two-legged, dark-armored, red-eyed droids staggered and fell backwards, spitting sparks and smoke.

They were back running before Streen even caught up behind them. Kirana Ti leapt up the stairs to the upper levels, taking them three at a time. As they ascended Tyria could feel Streen come to a halt. Instead of trying to keep up with them—he was far older than either of them, after all—he pointed his blaster upwards and fired. He wasn't really trying to hit anything, but the constant stream of fire gave the two women enough cover to advance.

The Consulate's defense droids fought a losing battle against the invading Imperials, but they were bolstered by a single woman wielding a heavy repeater that appeared far too large for her frame. Tionne's silver hair flashed as she yelled various obscenities, strong blasts from her weapon punching through black armor with ridiculous ease as the double-viol on her back gleamed in the sunlight. But as Tyria and Kirana Ti leapt over the final stair to join the fight, Tionne caught a single shot to the side. Spinning to hit the ground heavily, Tionne let out a single pained cry, trying to hoist her repeater up once more to return fire.

She would have been too slow, but she was not alone. A pair of twinned blaster bolts—one from Tyria and one from Kirana Ti—each took the droid lining up the kill shot in the head and torso. With a small plume of smoke the suddenly headless battle droid collapsed to the ground, twitching.

Another floor above them there was a third heavy boom, followed by a fourth. "Kam!" gasped Tionne from where she lay bleeding on the floor, struggling to stand.

Tyria leapt forward, dropping her rifle and snatching her lightsaber up again, taking a basic guard position. She was still unaccustomed to the weapon—Mara and Tionne had helped her construct it only a few weeks before—but she drove herself forward in a vicious charge. Staggering her steps from right to left to throw off the remaining droids' aim, she dropped into a slide and then catapulted off the ground. Her lightsaber slashed evenly through the torso of one of the droids, then she spun to the side and carved the blade through a leg of a second. Kirana Ti was there, her rifle pumping a point blank shot into the second droid's chest.

The remaining Consulate security droids sparked and hissed, every one showing scorches where their armor had protected them, and none of them any longer combat capable.

From above there was another boom. The building rattled.

"Kam!" Tionne moaned again, clutching at her side.

Streen had finally made his way up the stairs—it felt like it had been minutes, but it could only have been maybe thirty seconds—and he fell by Tionne's side, immediately rendering aid.

Tionne's silver eyes were locked on Tyria. "Go!" she gasped.

Tyria prepared to do just that—

There was a shade in the periphery of her vision. A foe as invisible to her as the droids, a woman in black armor emerged out of the shadows. She held a nasty-looking blaster in one hand and before Tyria could call out a warning she fired.

The shot caught Kirana Ti full in the back, sending the warrior witch flying forward to the ground. The witch's armor smoked but, to Tyria's everlasting relief, appeared intact. Her relief was fleeting. Kirana Ti's jaw hit the ground hard and she collapsed in a heap, moaning, struggling to stand and obviously unable to.

Tionne, Streen, and Tyria stared wide eyed at the shadowy figure. Tyria still found it hard to even focus on her, like she was there but not there, using the Force to cloak herself in the shadows. Dark black hair was matched with equally black lipstick and eyes.

Tyria charged. She had always moved fast and deceptively—as a child on Toprawa, even the older Rangers had recognized Tyria's skill—and she followed her training precisely. Her weight moved from foot to foot, preparing for a perfect slash at her enemy, shifting her weight just exactly as she had been taught—

—the pressure of sudden impact, the wrench of pain, the sudden limpness of her grip—

Tyria found herself twisted into a heap on the ground, dazed and confused. Her attack had been perfect. That same lunge had been difficult for Luke Skywalker himself to deal with when he'd first seen it. The Antarian Rangers had always been trained to fight with Jedi, but they also knew Jedi better than any other paramilitary force in the galaxy, knew their strengths and weaknesses—

"You're not the only one the Rangers taught, little girl," Roganda Ismaren mocked.

Those words made no sense. But nothing was making much sense to Tyria in that moment. A boot caught her full in the chest as she tried to stand and she felt one of her ribs give, the painful crack making it suddenly hard for her to breathe. Her lightsaber was gone—when she had lost it, Tyria wasn't sure, but she saw it in Roganda's hand now, the former Emperor's Hand admiring the careful craftsmanship.

"Impressive, for one of such limited talents," Roganda commented. A second boot caught Tyria and she gasped as the kick drove the air from her. "You must have had help. The false Hand, no doubt."

The dark lady's words stopped abruptly. She spun around, looking up. Tyria's gaze followed, though hers was blurry and unfocused…

Kam Solusar's bronzium armor did not gleam or shine. It was darkened with blaster grazes and shrapnel scars and Kam himself was breathing heavily, clearly exhausted, sweat damp in his hair and blood visible where there were gaps in his armor. He held a lightsaber in a two-handed grip, the blade ignited and humming with an intensity of purpose.

"Surrend—"

Before he could get the single word out, Roganda's hand lifted. With a cackle visible even over the sudden thunderclap, her expression suddenly contorted with hatred, a blue corona of lightning fire erupted from her fingertips, the air around Tyria suddenly heavy with electricity and hatred. She could taste it on her tongue, a tangy, burning that sparked around her.

Kam reacted faster than Tyria could have. His lightsaber swept upwards in an arc, catching the lightning on the blade to prevent it from striking Tionne and Streen. He held the blade in place, his eyes locked on Roganda. Tyria could feel him in the Force, feel the power Kam possessed, feel the intensity of his purpose, his need to stop Roganda at any cause, the need to keep the artifact that Luke and Mara had placed in their custody away from the Empire. Roganda hissed and the lightning burned from her fingers hotter, swirling around Kam's saber. He straightened his arm, confident that he had her attack blocked, the other Jedi were safe.

Roganda lifted her other hand and with a banshee wail that was nearly inhuman, a second burst of lightning erupted from her. Kam's eyes went wide with surprise and he tried to shift his position so he could—

The lightning hit Kam full in the chest. The blue light coruscated around him, lightning tracing all four of his limbs and his darkened armor suddenly gleamed anew, this time with electricity rather than polish.

Roganda was still screaming with rage as Tyria finally succumbed to unconsciousness.

* * *

Roganda's throat was dry, her voice hoarse. Kam Solusar lay, electricity still crackling through him, his armor cracked and broken. He was still trying to reach for his saber, trying to fight back, because he knew the cost of his failure.

So too did Roganda.

She smiled at him, tossing the Ranger's lightsaber casually away. She did not try to speak—she did not trust her voice to still work, not after the rage she had unleashed to defeat the Jedi.

She was tempted to kill them all, to strangle the new Jedi order in its cradle, but she did not have the time. Skywalker and Jade were coming. She could feel them coming, could feel their meteoric approach, like a bolt of lightning heading straight in her direction. If they arrived before she could escape she would not be escaping. As much as she would relish every slow death of every fallen Jedi, it was an indulgence she could not afford.

Yet.

She raced up the stairs. There was a void in the Force up there, one she knew was caused by the damnable Ysalamiri. Her battle droids were strewn and broken, sliced with skillful saber strikes—Solusar had destroyed at least a dozen, all by himself—but there were no defenses left. Her droids had seen to that, before Solusar had destroyed them.

In the center of the room, surrounded by nutrient frames containing Ysalamiri, was the Seed.

She could not feel it in the Force. She could not feel anything in the Force. The Seed looked almost sickly, the pulsing green colors that had pumped through it dim to the point of invisibility. She gathered it up in her arms gently, cradling it like an infant, and ran.

Tempered Mettle screamed through the atmosphere of Corsucant like a revenant spirit, swirling through dense clouds of moisture and panicked starships. Coruscant's sky was full of people, terrified and uncertain: had the Empire returned? Should they run? Hide? Surrender? Thousands upon thousands chose to run, leaving the galactic capital's traffic controllers utterly swamped and ignored, turning Coruscant's normally-orderly sky into a hive of treacherous peril.

Mara could see multiple midair collisions ahead of her. Crippled airspeeders spiraling down on damaged repulsorlifts, or streaks of falling debris. When the day was over, she feared the casualty count just from accidents would be in the tens of thousands, if not significantly higher.

They needed to get through that mess.

She didn't let anyone fly her ship, but today, right now, Luke was at the helm. He was the better pilot and they both knew it, so he had claimed the pilot's seat while she took control of her ship's weapons. Her targeting scanners went wild as they detected rogue ship after rogue ship, each streaking along jagged pathways up into the sky. Above them confused warships tried to maintain order, but they too were simply overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of people. Coruscant was home to trillions of sentients, and those trillions were confused and terrified.

Even as Luke maneuvered Tempered Mettle with casual, ridiculous skill, weaving between panicked starships with an ease that Mara knew he did not feel, she knew they were too late. The Consulate was visible now and growing larger quickly, its roof smoking from some kind of explosive blast. A ship Mara had never seen before was fleeing from the Consulate's landing pads, its unobtrusive silhouette just starting to climb towards space. That was their quarry, smaller than Tempered Mettle—Mara's ship was actually quite sizable—and it did not make any attempt to avoid the civilians who filled Coruscant's skies. It raced upwards to join them, blending in, trying to be just one more freighter fleeing Coruscant under siege.

Beside her, Artoo was trying to get a hold of the commanders of the New Republic fleets, trying to contact someone, anyone, to let them know where they needed to be to prevent Roganda's escape, but the comm channels were jammed and even private comms were unreliable. The system had been pushed to its breaking point and nudged beyond.

If anyone was going to prevent Roganda's escape, it would have to be them.

Mara brought up the main gun, knowing the distance was too far for the lighter lasers. Tempered Mettle's primary armament was the long spinal turbolaser, powerful enough to blast through even heavy shields and armor—but only if they made compromises elsewhere. With Luke already stressing the engines, the only place to find excess power was her ship's shields.

Tempered Mettle's alarms started to turn orange and then red as the friction from Coruscant's atmosphere heated up her armor. They streaked through the sky like a rocket aflame and Mara tried not to—refused to let herself—think about the fact that she was pregnant.

"Get us in range," she said aloud as she watched their prey through her gunnery computer.

Luke knew that already and said nothing as they continued to gain speed. She felt no relief when the heat sensors abruptly started to return to normal, because that meant they had exited the atmosphere, and that meant that they were getting close to the edge of Coruscant's gravity well.

She would only have one shot. If that.

"Closer," she murmured—

She didn't have any more time to wait. They were just inside effective range, her weapons were charged. Luke aligned Mettle's bow. Mara felt his satisfaction, made some minute adjustments to the servos, and squeezed her gunner's yoke. A green bolt of energy lanced forward and struck Roganda's ship!

But Tempered Mettle was not the only ship bestowed upon an Emperor's Hand by the Empire's finest shipwrights. Despite the ferocity of the strike, their enemy's shields were equal to it. Mara clenched her free hand, holding her breath, waiting for the gun to recharge for a second shot—

She fired again the instant the gun reached the minimum power required for discharge. This blast lacked the punch of the first but it was just as fast, and their target had already been hit once… but then the target was gone. Mara's last shot coasted out towards the void between stars, dissipating like a bad weld on a pressurized hull.

Roganda had escaped.

Chapter Text

The icy storm of hyperspace swirled around Roganda's message boat. She ignored the red-blinking shields and minor hull damage to consider her prize. The seed was as dormant as Roganda's surviving DTs, but just being near it was enough to make her giddy. That was a sensation she could only remember feeling a handful of times in her life. When she confirmed that Irek was Force sensitive was probably the only other time in her adult life.

Her Emperor had described it as the product of ancient Dark Side practices, but he had never said more than that. Only that if he acquired it and commanded it he could use it to make even the Death Star obsolete as a tool of Imperial power. It just needed to be directed and, most importantly, controlled. The product of all her subsequent experimentation, all her trials and all her errors, was the Silencer-7 droid intelligence. The seed would complete Silencer-7, Irek would command it, and all Roganda's plans would be fulfilled.

Despite the seed's silence it practically pulsed with power. Energy and potential swirled around its quiet core. A piece of technology it might seem to be, but it had a presence in the Force, one she could palpably feel.

Sleep, precious, she thought to it, fighting the urge to stroke it with her long fingers. Sleep. We're almost home, and then you can be reborn in glory.

Irek and Halmere were waiting for her when she arrived. So too were their pet cyberneticists, probably to ensure that the Silencer command interface would operate properly even after Silencer-7 was merged with the seed. She spared her son a nod both severe and welcoming—he seemed to understand the combination of necessary discipline and congratulations for his efforts—but kept her attention on the one real threat in the room.

"Emperor-Regent," she greeted him.

"You are late," Halmere said. The man's Force-sense glimmered with lingering anger—no doubt, Roganda thought, he was still mad at her for the dismissive way she had treated him in their last meeting.

Too bad, Roganda thought. I need you even less than I did. Once Silencer-7 is complete and battle-tested, I will need you not at all.

She said none of that out loud. For the moment, Silencer-7 was not complete, and she was not sure how long the mergence between the AI that she had built for the Emperor and the seed would take. So instead, as politely as she could manage, she said: "I have what I was looking for."

Halmere's expression shifted slightly, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, almost the beginnings of a frown, quickly schooled. "That is good news."

By contrast, Irek was enthused. He always was happy for her successes. "Congratulations, mother!"

She favored him with a dignified nod, and he swallowed and resumed a more formal mein.

Beside him, Cray Mingla and Nichos Marr looked as if they were at a wake. Which, Roganda thought smugly, they were. A wake for all the New Order's enemies—all her enemies—and all they held dear. Soon the war would be over, all the losses washed away, and her Empire would straddle the galaxy.

She wanted that as quickly as possible. "Come," she ordered. "Now. I will wait no longer."

They traveled into the depths of Silencer Station.

At its core was something that only she had seen. Inside all the walls, all the bulkheads, all the layers of armor, at the station's very center, was its genesis. The original molecular furnace, designed to break matter down into raw materials and reforge it into whatever was needed. The large computer mainframe which housed the original Silencer droid intelligence.

The last component was her original core. It was tiny compared to the one recovered from Nar Shaddaa. Small enough to fit within her fist, it too had a presence in the Force… but a tiny one, easily missed. It had been reduced—or perhaps it had never been the equal to the seed she now carried—but it had possessed the kernel of energy she had needed to create Silencer Station's motivating force. That small remnant had brought Silencer-7 to life, allowing it to begin the process of manufacturing the New Order's military.

What, she thought, giddy with anticipation, would the true seed accomplish with it? How long would it take her to produce enough droids to defeat the rebellion and see Irek truly installed as Emperor? A week? A month? A year? No matter how long it took, she would make it happen.

Silencer Station's computer core was as she remembered it. A square room, each of the walls was lined with enormous computer terminals, each with a monitor that provided far too much information for a human mind to assimilate. Their screens flashed with inhuman quickness, a flutter of white and blue light that cast fleeting shadows, quickly replaced. Above them, climbing into the high ceiling, the computers had been built directly into the wall—and, Roganda knew, had steadily grown outwards, filling the space around this room in almost every direction. The room was hot, and both the floors and the ceiling had vents that constantly cast out cold air, clashing with the heat produced by all that hardware.

In the center of the room was a square podium. It seemed to rise directly out of the floor, seamless; the podium was illuminated with a single, bright light that pointed directly down from the high ceiling above. At the center of that column of light was a small, spherical object, held suspended in mid-air within the box, spinning slowly. The object itself was not interesting to look at; a dodecahedron, it reminded Roganda of a holocron—another example of Force-imbued technology.

As they entered, the dodecahedron started to spin faster. Roganda could feel it in the Force, just as she could feel the artifact recovered from Nar Shaddaa. They felt the same, two fragments of the same whole… one shaved off by some reckless treasure hunter, and the other forgotten in the depth of Nar Shaddaa until she and her droids had awakened it.

The artifact began to spin as well. She pushed the repulsorsled that carried it into the center of the room, until it was flush against the podium, and the fragment that was already there abruptly shot through the air towards the sled. It impacted the artifact and was swallowed up, merging once more into the unity from which it had at some point in the past been stolen.

The now-complete seed continued its spin, but that spin slowed. As she and Irek—and Halmere and the cyberneticists—watched it came to a stop once more, gleaming in the dark.

"What is it?" asked Cray, sounding amazed.

"You study the marriage of biology and machines," Roganda answered smugly. "This is the marriage of the Force and machines." She took the seed in both hands—it was surprisingly light—and placed it at the center of the podium. The podium itself had been the product of many hours of Roganda's work… though, with a not insignificant amount of the Emperor's guidance. It had been constructed as a host for the seed, and as she placed the seed atop that podium she knew that her life's work was truly complete.

The computers all around them stopped flashing. All the light went out as one, leaving only the bright illumination of the seed in the center of the room. The seed itself seemed to glow in the Force, imbued with energy and… intent… and as she watched, awed, the computers slowly restarted, one by one, until all four walls were bright once more. They flashed simultaneously, and then they all went blank.

Text scrolled across them in a large font.

SILENCER-7 ACTIVATION COMPLETE. SYSTEMS TEST UNDERWAY. MOLECULAR FURNACE TEST UNDERWAY. MANUFACTURING CAPACITY TEST UNDERWAY. LOGIC ENGINE TEST UNDERWAY.

. . .

TESTS COMPLETE. MOLECULAR FURNACE OPERATING AT CAPACITY. MANUFACTURING FACILITIES AWAITING INSTRUCTIONS. LOGIC ENGINE UPGRADES IN PROGRESS.

. . .

TESTING COMMAND INTERFACE. COMMAND INTERFACE INTENDED FOR [DESIGNATE] EMPEROR.

Roganda took the command interface that Cray had built from its resting place at the end of the repulsorsled that had carried the seed to its final destination. Carrying it like a crown, she held it out with both hands for her son. "And with Irek," she said, "it will become the marriage of all three."

* * *

Irek glanced at Cray and Nichos nervously as he took the command interface from his mother. She stepped back from him—as if retreating to a safe distance—and nodded. "I know you have commanded Silencer-7 before," she encouraged him. "It is now ready, and it awaits your will."

With trepidation, he settled the interface onto his head, holding his breath, his heart beating in time to his fear. The electricity, the pressure, of merging with the interface started at his temples, filling his ears with a dull roar. He could feel it expand to fill his skull, compressing the consciousness he kept behind his eyes, and pressure grew to pain as his head exploded with presence.

The last time he had worn the interface, Silencer-7 had communicated with him via the screen that came down in front of his eyes. That screen stayed dark, because it was unnecessary. He could hear Silencer-7 without it, its… thoughts… intermingled with his own.

WELCOME [DESIGNATE] EMPEROR.

Was the AI supposed to have a personality? There was something almost human about that voice—a voice Irek knew that only he could hear, because it was conveyed through the interface, directly from the computer into his mind. He could feel Silencer-7, surrounding him, and felt like he was an island, floating in an ocean he could not see the ends of.

Silencer-7? His own thoughts felt quiet compared to the booming voice rattling his ears.

WHAT IS YOUR WILL, [DESIGNATE] EMPEROR?

Somewhere, in the world outside the interface, he could hear his mother's voice. Or was that Halmere's? They all blurred, and it took his mind some time to reassemble the stimulus into something he could understand. Tell it to begin constructing our fleet. We must know its new limits.

COMMAND UNDERSTOOD, the AI boomed in his mind, not waiting for him to communicate the message deliberately. It could hear everything he could hear.

Now the screen in front of Irek's eyes did activate. There was no scrolling text, but it showed him Silencer Station's massive molecular furnace. The gaping maw of the station illuminated with intensity seemingly equal to that of a star, and the entire station descended lower. What had once been the fifth planet in the K-3-947 system—now increasingly just a large cracked planetoid and a growing cluster of large rocks—was sucked up into that maw. All that raw material was broken down by the furnace, processed, and used to construct a quickly-growing number of TIE droids.

COMMAND EXECUTION UNDERWAY, [DESIGNATE] EMPEROR. WHAT IS YOUR WILL?

* * *

Cray watched, both stunned and horrified, as the interface and Irek intermingled. That had always been the intention—it was a cybernetic interface, a vergence of human and artificial intelligence like any arm or organ she had worked on before. But despite that, this still felt wrong.

The screens around the room blinked with text.

COMMAND UNDERSTOOD. MAXIMIZING CONSTRUCTION EFFICIENCY. MANUFACTURING FACILITIES AT TWENTY PERCENT CAPACITY. ESTIMATING TIME UNTIL FULL CAPACITY.

Those words scrolled around the room, sliding from screen to screen, and then went blank. They were replaced, second later, with:

AWAITING FURTHER COMMANDS FROM [DESIGNATE] EMPEROR.

Halmere stepped towards the boy, but Roganda spoke before he could. "Tell us what else this station can do, now that it is complete?"

Halmere spoke even before she was finished speaking, eyeing her with annoyance as he did. "What are this station's combat abilities?"

* * *

One again, he heard words, like a whisper from beyond his body. What else can this station do?

As before, the AI recognized and processed the question almost without any involvement from Irek. The visual interface that filled his sight shifted, revealing a full picture of Silencer Station. As he watched, information poured across it. Turbolaser batteries. Tractor beams. Concussion missile launchers. Layers and layers and layers of armor. Overlapping shield generators. All of it powered by the energy produced by the molecular furnace, constantly breaking down and reconstructing matter.

COMBAT ABILITIES UNDEVELOPED. QUERY: CURRENT PRIORITY IS MANUFACTURING. ALTER PRIORITY TO DEVELOPMENT OF DIRECT COMBAT ABILITIES?

There was another voice speaking to him, but he couldn't make it out. Irek, it said, but Silencer-7 ignored it. Irek tried to focus on it, tried to listen. His arms were slow, sluggish things; he'd nearly forgotten what they were for or could do. Could he remove the interface? It felt like a part of his skull, inextricable.

He realized that he was speaking, relaying the question from Silencer-7 to Halmere and his mother. It was odd, how unconscious that was… how distant the world beyond Silencer-7 seemed to him. He sank deeper and deeper into the ocean that was the AI's consciousness, and the booming voice of the machine started to sound more and more like his own voice as he submerged in it.

* * *

"—Silencer Station is also equipped with overlapping shield generators, with individual fusion power generators. In total, the station has power production capabilities on par with one hundred Imperial II-class Star Destroyers, making its shields nearly impenetrable to conventional weapons. The station also has armor heavier than a Golan III Space Defense NovaGun, which can be constantly reconstructed as long as the molecular furnace has access to raw materials. These defensive capabilities—"

"Something is wrong," Cray raised her voice to be heard over Irek's litany. She had prompted Irek twice now and he had responded to neither. His voice had become raw and mechanical, with none of the boy's typical sarcastic energy. He sounded instead like a droid intelligence, and that was not at all how the command interface was supposed to work.

"That's the AI… talking…" Nichos agreed raggedly. Even with the weakness in his voice, she could hear the sudden concern. "In this kind… of cybernetic convergence… the human intelligence is supposed… to take precedence…"

"But he can still relay commands from us to Silencer-7?" Roganda asked. "Tell the Station to develop its combat power?"

Cray stared at the woman in disbelief. "If we don't disengage the interface there's a chance he won't come out at all!" To her astonishment, neither Roganda nor Halmere looked even moderately concerned. Halmere's callousness did not surprise her, but this was Roganda's own son!

She started towards the boy, intent on tearing that interface off his head, but Halmere grabbed her with an invisible fist. His real fist was clenched in the air; she wrenched backwards when he made a single scattering gesture. Nichos stumbled, trying to come to help, but Halmere merely pushed him over. Unbalanced, Nichos hit the ground with a heavy, awkward crunch and a cry of pain. Cray struggled, trying to wrench herself out of the Emperor-Regent's grip—

Irek's voice brought their struggle to a surprised halt. The interface was now in his hand, rather than upon his head, and his eyes were clear. He looked exhausted, ragged and worn, and like Nichos he nearly collapsed—but unlike Nichos, he was able to catch himself before he fell. When Irek spoke, it was with the same, exhausted timbre that Cray was used to hearing from Nichos. "Silencer-7 is developing its combat abilities," he murmured, almost whisper-soft. "As you instructed."

He swayed and Roganda caught him. "Are you all right?" she asked insistently. "Will you be able to command it again?"

"I think so." Irek's eyes went unfocused. He was looking in Cray's direction, but without the gaze that he so often levied upon her—the gaze of teenage infatuation and attraction. He looked through her, as if she were not even there. "So much power…"

"Yes, my son," Roganda said, her voice an equal mix of assurance and avarice. "So much power at our fingertips."

Halmere released Cray; she promptly fell at Nichos' side, hooking her arm around him and helping him strenuously back to his feet.

Roganda watched them, helping Irek much as Cray was helping Nichos. "Do not kill them," she ordered Halmere. "I still have a task for them."

"Do you?"

She smiled. "You'll be pleased. I intend to put Project 'Fit to Serve' into full effect." She pointed at Cray. "I will send one of my droids for you. You will come, and you will work, or there will be consequences." Roganda looked meaningfully at Nichos.

Cray had no doubt the woman was serious. The way she treated Irek, she surely would kill Nichos. But then, Cray was more and more convinced that Roganda would do that anyway. She considered refusing and provoking the two Imperials into killing them both right here, but if she did that she and Nichos' suffering would all be for nothing, because they had not yet found a good opportunity to sabotage the Empire's efforts… and she still could not stand the idea of losing him. Not now. Not here. Not like this.

The droid that came to fetch Cray and Nichos was one of Halmere's assassin droids. Despite its pretense towards human-ness, it came off as far less human than a typical protocol droid. Covered with a thick black armored carapace over its skeleton, the way it moved—and especially the way it interacted with people—made clear that it was an inhuman creation. It did not even look at Cray; neither its head nor its glowing, pupil-less red eyes focused their attention on her in any kind of overt way. It simply stayed close to them, watching them with less obvious sensors. Cray wasn't sure why its designers had even bothered with the head at all, after all there was no need to make a new droid design look human.

She knew she was babbling to herself, trying to assert some control over her situation. Some understanding. It was hard, because she understood little, and much of her energy was spent supporting Nichos. He was struggling now, more than he had been; he had never fully recovered from being stunned during his foolhardy attempt to get a message out, and he had been steadily deteriorating before that. Even worse was the fact that they were going to see Roganda. Roganda was dangerous and unpredictable, more willing to use the threat of force to induce immediate compliance with her demands. That increasingly set her apart from her son. Something had changed in Irek, in the way he looked at Nichos… as if he could see a person now, and not just an obstacle, or worse an animal to be both pitied and scorned.

Unfortunately, to Roganda both Cray and Nichos were creatures to be pitied and scorned, perhaps minus the pity.

The hallways in this part of Silencer Station did not illuminate when they walked through them. The droid escorting her just led her straight down the hall, through the precise middle, and the only light was the dim red from the droid's eyes and indicators.

"Creepy down here," Nichos whispered, his voice strained.

"Yeah," she replied shortly.

"Any idea what she's going to have us working on?"

Cray shook her head wordlessly.

"Me neither."

The droid escort came to an abrupt halt. Its legs stayed planted, but its midsection swiveled to face them, its enormous blaster rifle pointed half in their direction. The droid made an inhuman grunting sound—not something Cray would ever have picked for a droid of her own creation—and the door nearest them slid open. The sudden burst of whiteness and light from within was almost blinding, and both Cray and Nichos gasped. She covered her eyes with a hand as they adjusted.

Behind her, the droid grunted again, more insistently.

Wincing, Cray helped Nichos through the door. They stepped into what was, unmistakably, a medical ward. This hallway, unlike the one they had just come from, was well-lit. Medical droids were going about apparently important business, hurrying through the hall, coming in and out of rooms. Occasionally they were accompanied by large repulsorlifts. Some of these were flat carrying what appeared to be cylindrical containers, about a foot in diameter and three feet in height, transparent at the top and shielded in the middle and bottom. All Cray could see was that they were filled with some kind of liquid. Other repulsorlifts appeared to be biohazard disposal units of some kind.

"A station crewed almost entirely by droids," Nichos murmured, his voice both weak and curious. The curiosity reminded her of the man she'd fallen in love with, and she tightened her arm around him. "What does it need with a secret hospital?"

"I have a better question," Cray said. Sudden dread wrenched at her. There was something wrong, something deeply wrong with all this. "We're not medical doctors. What does she want us to do here?"

Nichos went very quiet.

Cray looked all around them. Their droid escort had not accompanied them into the hospital and, other than the medical droids, they were alone. "Where are we supposed to go?" she wondered.

Without a better answer to that question, they started to wander down the hall. They tried to get answers from the medical droids, but received none—the droids completely ignored their presence, except when they disrupted their work, which clearly made the droids irritated. They were, however, apparently free to explore at their leisure otherwise.

She came to a stunned, surprised stop as they entered one of the first rooms, unable to stop herself from gasping. The first room was filled with beds, each one next to a set of medical equipment. There were men sleeping on those beds, completely and utterly silent; their arms and legs were hooked up to intravenous injectors from the machines. They weren't dead—Cray could see some of them breathing—but from a distance, Cray would have thought they were.

Many of the men had been wounded in combat, she realized. She saw many shrapnel wounds, occasional lost limbs…

"Combat wounds," Nichos managed, taking in the sights as she did. "Imperial wounded from the war."

"They're keeping them unconscious," Cray agreed. "Maybe waiting until they have the ability to better treat their wounds."

"Maybe that's what she wants us for?" Nichos guessed. "Working on their replacement limbs and other cybernetics? Getting their wounded warriors back into battle to continue the war?" He turned his head slightly in her direction. "If that is what she wants, should we go along? Or…"

Or is it time for us to refuse? Cray finished the sentence silently. Is it time for us to refuse to let them use us anymore? She glanced around, but she couldn't say what she was really thinking—there was too high a risk that the Empire had monitoring devices in these rooms. We're still going to find a way to hurt them, Nichos, she promised him—and herself. We're going to beat them, no matter what it costs us. And we're going to do it together.

She tightened her grip on him. He seemed to understand, even without the words, and offered her a sparse nod.

Behind them, the door to the ward whispered open. A medical droid with one of the repulsorsleds walked in, with eight of the cylindrical containers arrayed precisely upon it. She got a better look at them than she had inside, but as best she could tell, they contained nothing but the fluid she'd already seen outside.

The droid made its way directly to the patient nearest the door. Shortly thereafter, a second droid followed with the second sled.

Cray helped Nichos out of their path. "What are they doing?" she asked, confused, as the two droids performed a quick examination of the patient. They attached a few pieces of medical equipment—devices that Cray actually recognized, from studies she had been doing prior to being kidnapped by the Empire, as ones that monitored brain and central motor function—and waited for the results.

"Let's keep going," Nichos murmured to her. "We should try to see as much as we can before Roganda gets here."

The medical droids were working their way through all the patients, repeating their scans on each one, when Cray and Nichos exited.

The second room was not so brightly lit, but neither was it as dark as the exterior corridor had been. Rows of shelves lined through the space, each one dimly lit. Cray could see that on the shelves were the odd cylindrical containers they had seen on the repulsorsleds outside.

But these…

They weren't empty.

A fist of realization and horror clenched itself around her throat, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. In each one of the containers was a human brain. They were all hooked up to some kind of monitoring system, one that beeped and flickered with light visible in the dimness.

Nichos had very nearly stopped breathing altogether. "Sithspawn," he gasped, sounding more pained, more exhausted, than his illness alone had ever made him.

Neither of them said another word. They didn't need to. There was nothing to say, so they clung to one another, hoping to wake up from a nightmare, to be back at the Magrody Institute and find that all the time they'd lost was restored. That the horrors the Empire had inflicted upon them both had been just a dream.

In the final room, they found a hangar. Two rows of TIE droids were housed within it, one on each side of the room; at the far end, there was an enormous opening that led into Silencer Station's much, much larger main hangar. Droids were hard at work on each fighter, both medical droids and engineering units, and next to many of them were those horrible repulsorsleds and those even more horrible cylindrical containers.

In the center of the hangar, facing the door they entered through, was Roganda Ismaren, sitting on a throne. She watched them wordlessly as they came in, then parted her hands in a gesture of welcome. "Doctors Mingla and Marr. You have arrived. I trust your tour of the facility has answered any questions you might have?"

Fury boiled in Cray's gut. She set her jaw hard, staring viciously. "You are a monster."

"I imagine every inferior thinks that about their betters," Roganda replied with a vicious smile of her own. "Welcome to Project 'Fit to Serve.' You actually deserve much of the credit for this, Doctor Mingla. It was your own research at Magrody Labs that first gave me the idea."

Cray could feel all the blood drain out of her cheeks. All those horrible nights, all the desperate searches, all the lack of sleep… even before they'd been kidnapped, she had been hard at work, searching for a solution, any solution, to Nichos' illness. After all, his was an illness of the body, not the mind, and she was a cyberneticist. One possible solution, among many, had been uploading Nichos' consciousness to a droid body…

The sudden tension in Nichos' body told her that he understood the implication too. Anger and embarrassment flooded through her. "I was looking for a way to save lives!" she snarled.

"These men may not have been in any danger of dying," Roganda conceded, "but I can assure you, what we have saved here is no less valuable."

"You had no right to do this to them without their consent!"

"On the contrary, Doctor Mingla, I had every right." Roganda stood slowly, to her full regal height. "I am the Emperor's Hand. I am the Dowager Empress. I am the Empire. These men, every one of them, swore an oath to serve the Empire, to serve me, until they were no longer fit. It is I, and I alone, who determines when they are unfit to serve. As droids they will be perfectly loyal, fit to serve longer and better than they ever could have as men. As droids they will see the redemption and restoration of the Empire. As men they would have seen only its defeat."

She smiled. It was the kind of smile that had hidden jagged edges, and when Cray gazed, transfixed, at the older woman's twisted features, it was a gaze into the heart of madness.

"What do you want Cray for?"

Nichos could still speak, which astonished Cray. Her mouth was dry and she was utterly without words.

"The merger is imperfect," Roganda admitted casually. "The cybernetic brains do not yet work properly. The droids tell me that after installation, and even detailed calibration, the TIEs become erratic."

"You put a human brain into a droid!" Cray snarled. "It's not a surprise if it becomes erratic!"

"Perhaps. But I suspect that is a problem that you can help me with, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't even know where to start! You can't program a human brain the way you can program an AI! I can't just put a restraining bolt—"

"You can help me," Roganda said calmly, "or you can join them. My supply of droid bodies is practically indefinite."

Cray could feel herself starting to hyperventilate, could feel her anger seizing at her. She wanted to kill this woman, to make her suffer, suffer the way all these poor men had suffered, suffer the way Nichos suffered—

"Does he know?" Nichos asked slowly, and with immense deliberation. The words shocked Cray's rage back under control. What was Nichos talking about?

"Does who know?" Roganda asked, equally puzzled.

"Irek," Nichos said, the single syllable pronounced with a stiff anger that matched Cray's own. "Your son. The one you're feeding to the Silencer AI like you're feeding these men to those droids."

If we don't disengage the interface there's a chance he might not come out at all.

He might not come out at all.

Those had been her own words, just a few hours before. Cray had not realized her horror could go any deeper than it already did, but she was discovering that there were new depths to her disgust and anger.

Roganda just stared at Nichos, her eyes smoking.

"Did you tell him?" Nichos pressed, yet again. "Does he know what it will do to him?"

"Do to him?" Roganda laughed. "It will make him the most powerful man in the galaxy!"

"I won't help you," Nichos said, his jaw set.

"Oh, but I think you will," Roganda countered. The older woman reached out, flicking her fingers towards Cray. There was a crackle of energy, a hint of blue light, and then Cray's body was on fire, agony tracing through her, crackling around her toes and, tangy electricity spasming over her tongue.

* * *

Cray smelled sulfur. Everything hurt.

The toe of a boot nudged her nose. "Now do you understand?"

Cray couldn't talk. She could barely breathe. Somewhere she could feel Nichos' presence, could hear his voice, his own desperation to protect her, but all Cray could see was Roganda's boot in her face, nudging her nose.

"TIE droids with human intelligence, human intuition, and human creativity," Roganda said casually. "I want them. I will have them. You will give them to me." The toe of Roganda's boot receded. Somewhere, in the recesses of Cray's mind where there was something other than pain, fear, and anger, there was apparently still some capacity for surprise. That surprise came upon her now, as Roganda knelt down to lean towards Cray, the older woman's voice lowering to a whisper. "Such anger you have in you, Doctor Mingla. Perhaps someday we will explore that, as well."

For all its size, Natasi Daala found Silencer Station to be remarkably inhospitable. The people who served aboard her were almost uniformly ISB types, and the function they actually served was mostly to keep Halmere and Roganda updated at all times about events in the galaxy. They were advisors and briefing officers, not soldiers. The soldiers aboard were droids. All of them were droids. The DT-model assassin droids were the most common sight, though the station's hangars were starting to grow with larger and larger numbers of TIE droids.

Daala had, therefore, relocated back to Stormhawk the moment she felt sure she understood the full scope of what Silencer Station had to offer.

Sarreti had told her that the intention had been for the station to produce a thousand TIE droids a month, but that the station had never reached that capacity. Whatever it was that the Emperor's Hand had brought had changed that, because just in the last few days she had watched the number of TIE droids grow from a few hundred to three times that number. They were improved behaviorally, too, not as dumb as the ones she'd turned into missiles during her attack on Coruscant.

Even with the Empire in such a reduced state, even with the loss of Carida, the loss of Corellia… with the number of TIE droids she was being given, there was a chance she could save the Empire. At the very least, she would be able to stave off defeat. The ships she'd brought back from the Core were now allocated to reinforce the Empire's defenses against New Republic advance.

The best thing, she knew, was to wait. Silencer Station and its capabilities were immense and they were growing. All they needed to do was let those capabilities grow. If now Daala had what she needed to stave off defeat, what would the station offer her in a month? In a year? In three years? Would it always be limited to constructing TIE droids? Where did its capabilities end?

She didn't know, but it was best not to provoke the New Republic into an assault that she could not hope to withstand until she found out.

Unfortunately, she was only Grand Admiral. That decision was not hers to make.

"I understand your desire to force Ferrouz to capitulate," Daala said, speaking slowly and precisely. On the other side of the flatscreen was the large, blocky form of Emperor-Regent Halmere. "But Silencer Station gives us a long-term advantage. Time is on our side, your highness."

"Faith in the Empire is waning," Halmere countered. "We have lost Corellia and Rendili, and both of them were lost not to assaults by the Rebellion, but to revolt from within. Ferrouz's victory against us, and his unexpected strength, was enough to provoke Corellia into rebellion. What will it mean for places like Muunilinst? No, Grand Admiral, we must assault, and we must do so now. Whatever Ferrouz and Pellaeon have to oppose us will not stand against the power of Silencer Station."

"You intend to attack with the Station itself?" Daala questioned. The Station was everything! The Station was the Empire's entire future—for all intents and purposes, it was the Empire. With the Station they had a chance to win the war. Without it, they would surely be defeated, and in short order. And he intended to put the Station in danger? "Your Highness…"

"Nothing they have will stand against the power of Silencer Station," Halmere said calmly. "We will crush Ferrouz, just as we will crush all those who stand against the Empire."

"I'll prepare an escort—"

Halmere's smile was cold. "Grand Admiral Daala, I do not think you understand what Silencer Station represents. It needs no escort. It needs no help. It is now the singular power. All it requires to subjugate the galaxy once more under the Empire's control is time. You and the galaxy will see that at Poln Major, and none will question our rule again."

He went silent, watching her. "Yes, Emperor-Regent," she said, as she was expected to.

The flatscreen went black.

She turned away from it, placing her hands flat on her desk. "If he is wrong, all is lost," she said to Ephin Sarreti, sitting on the far side of her desk.

"He seems quite confident he is not wrong," Sarreti said.

Something had changed, Daala thought. Sarreti's gaze had a certain intensity to it, but that intensity wasn't on her. But there was a stiffness to his expression, an anger that held his cheeks stiff and his lips firmly together, that made his motions appear stiff and mechanical.

"We will prepare for either eventuality," she said.

"There were once eleven planets in this system," Sarreti said. "Silencer Station ate one and used its resources to construct itself into its current form." His intensity was suddenly on her. "It will consume Poln Major too, I think. And then other worlds. What will it look like when it is done?"

That was an odd question, Daala thought, and not one she thought it appropriate for Sarreti to ask.

Chapter Text

The Manarai Medical Center had far too much experience playing host to Jedi, Luke thought sadly.

Kam would live.

That had been far from a certainty two days before. Now, though, he was again immersed in bacta and the doctors were confident that his wounds were healing properly. Kam's burns from the lightning had been more severe than what Luke had experienced during and after Endor, and Kam had also been repeatedly shot by the droids even before he fought Roganda. Most serious had been the wounds he had sustained when Roganda's lightning had shattered his armor. Cilghal was already on her way back from Mon Calamari, and would be arriving soon to help care for him.

Between Tionne, Kirana Ti, and Tyria, the worst injuries were Tionne's. She had taken a blaster shot to the side and initial confidence on the part of her doctors had given way to more serious concern when it became clear the damage was not superficial. Like Kam she had gone into bacta, and like Kam she remained immersed. While Kam would stay in the tank for at least a few more days, Tionne was scheduled to be removed sooner. For now, though, her white hair floated all around her head, her eyes closed, wearing that terrible breathing mask that Luke had first encountered on Hoth.

Kirana Ti and Tyria stood with Luke in the hospital. Their wounds were not as serious—Tyria wore a bacta patch under her tunic to heal her ribs, and Kirana Ti had already recovered from her concussion. But their failure—all of their failure—to stop Roganda loomed around them, a chill wind that Luke could feel with every breath. Soon, very soon, they would pursue Roganda… but first they needed to know where to go.

Luke felt in his gut that they would know soon.

Leia was astonished by just how poised Captain Asori Rogriss was. She and Commander Dreyf sat at the center of the Inner Council Room, surrounded by the Inner Council members—minus Councilor Midanyl, who was still on Corellia negotiating with the new Corellian government.

The sudden chaos of the previous days—starting with Daala's assault on the fleet and culminating in Roganda's invasion of the Jedi Consulate. The resulting disastrous panic caused thousands of airspeeder accidents and subsequent falling debris had caused death and destruction on the capital's surface on a scale equal to—perhaps greater than—when Lusankya had broken free from its hiding place buried under the world's surface. The cataclysm had whipped the Senate into a fearful frenzy and they had taken that fear out on every convenient target. Only that morning, they had subjected a very weak Kam Solusar, only recently decanted from bacta, to a twelve-hour long interrogation, demanding he take them through every single minute of the attack on the Consulate. The day before that, they had gone after Mara—and Leia remained astonished that Mara had not either stormed out or killed them, with some of the accusations and insinuations Borsk Fey'lya had thrown at her.

Today, they were doing the same to Rogriss and Dreyf. Rogriss looked frazzled, but she doggedly persisted in answering every question she was asked, never once losing her temper.

"—and you say you do not have any knowledge of Roganda Ismaren's plans for the artifact she stole from the Jedi Consulate?" Threepio translated for Councilor Sian Tevv.

"As I answered before," Asori said stiffly, clearly trying hard not to reveal her annoyance or exhaustion, "I have no knowledge of Roganda Ismaren beyond her role within the New Order's hierarchy, and I have no knowledge of the artifact beyond what I saw at Nar Shaddaa."

"So you say," Fey'lya growled, cutting Tevv off. "But I find it very convenient that you found Jedi Skywalker and Mara Jade on Nar Shaddaa at exactly the right time to become involved in their efforts to find and secure the artifact. And it's clear that you knew exactly where the artifact was during its entire trip from Nar Shaddaa to Coruscant. You could have told Ismaren exactly where the artifact was, where it was going, and how it would be secured on Coruscant. We have no reason to believe that you aren't a New Order agent now!"

Please, don't lose your temper, Leia thought worriedly, watching as Asori's expression darkened with barely-suppressed anger seasoned with a frisson of condescension. He wants you to lose your temper.

"I hardly think speculation without evidence should count against the Captain," Councilor Ackbar interrupted. His hand moved in large, circular gesticulations as he pointed in Asori's general direction. "And there is no doubt that Captain Rogriss was a senior officer in the fleet that defeated the New Order at Poln Major."

"It wouldn't be the first time that ISB has sacrificed ships for one of their plots," Fey'lya retorted.

"To what end?" Ackbar shook his head. "I see no reason to believe—"

The doors at the back of the room opened at once. Through them Leia could see a figure in a New Republic field uniform, flanked by the two ceremonial guards who watched the doors. The three figures approached quickly, the center figure leading the other two (who had to make a few hurried motions to keep up). As they grew nearer, the middle figure resolved into General Airen Cracken.

"What is this?" demanded Fey'lya. "General Cracken, you know better than to barge into the Inner Council unannounced and uninvited. We are in the middle of—"

"It can wait," Cracken said. Fey'lya's eyes widened with anger, but Cracken seemed neither bothered nor concerned by that. "I've just intercepted a communication addressed to Captain Rogriss from Baron Soontir Fel. It is vital that both you and she see it at once." Ignoring Fey'lya's aborted attempts at bluster, Cracken produced a datachip from his pocket. He walked up to the desk where Rogriss and Dreyf sat—the two Imperials stared at him—and plugged it into the interface in the middle.

The shimmering blue form of a broad-shouldered Imperial, with dark black hair and an uniform festooned with awards, appeared larger-than-life in the space between the large round table occupied by the Inner Council members and the much smaller desk occupied by the two Imperials. Fel's image looked out towards the center of the Council, which meant he was making eye-contact with Mon Mothma, while Rogriss and Dreyf saw only his back.

"Captain Rogriss. I understand you have made contact with the New Republic government. At your first convenience, you need to bring them this message.

"We have gained additional information on the New Order's activities. They are in possession of a mobile platform they call Silencer Station. The Station and its artificial intelligence were designed under the Empire; I am told that Emperor Palpatine himself played a role in its genesis and Roganda Ismaren oversaw the project for him. That station is now fully online. If our reports are accurate, while it lacks a superlaser it otherwise matches a Death Star in its combat abilities. It also is capable of constructing TIE droids and other droid armaments for the Empire in large numbers. It does this using something called a 'molecular furnace', which dismantles objects and reuses their raw materials. This furnace is in essence both a weapon and a construction tool, as it can be used to disintegrate anything—including planets, if it has the time to do so. UREF Defense Intelligence has thus designated Silencer Station a 'World Devastator.'"

Fel's expression hardened. "Captain, we are reliably informed that Silencer Station will attack Poln Major in an attempt to defeat Grand Moff Ferrouz's resistance against the New Order. All forces within range of Poln Major have been recalled to resist it."

It was obvious that the next words were difficult for Fel. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before speaking. "We no longer have the luxury of time. Inform the New Republic's Inner Council that this World Devastator poses a threat to both them and us, and we should collaborate to destroy it as soon as possible. Our forces are rallying at Poln Major. If they can provide anything to assist us, that could save many lives among the world's civilian population, and the populations of all its future targets in the Republic.

"Report in when you can. Fel out."

Leia's heart was in her throat. Memories of Alderaan, of the moment of sudden destruction that erased her world, its history, and its people in an instant flashed before her. It made her tense, made her fingers clench at the warm woodgrain of the table they all sat at, made each breast suddenly come fast and haltingly.

Asori's face was suddenly pale and the fear there could not possibly be feigned, but even more revealing was Dreyf. The man had been virtually unreadable, even for her, playfully unflappable nearly every minute Leia had seen him in the negotiations. His face did not change much, but the sudden tension at the corners of his mouth was almost as revealing as the sudden, unmissable spike in his emotions she could read through the Force.

"This must be a trick!"

"We must rally the fleets at once!"

"Is there any way to confirm any of this?"

The Inner Council was all speaking at once. As Leia gradually disentangled their words, she started putting them into boxes. The ones in favor of sending immediate aid—really, only Ackbar. The ones who wanted to know more, which was most of them. And the ones who were crassly dismissing the entire thing as a trick, a lie, an Imperial deception, led by Borsk Fey'lya.

It was a roar from Kerrithrarr which brought the morass of murmurs back to stillness. "The Honorable Councilor from Kashyyyk expresses his uncertainty about this situation. He says that before we risk vital fleet assets, the New Republic must be certain that we confirm the reality of this threat. If the Empire had this kind of weapon, why have we not seen it sooner?" Threepio translated.

"Because they didn't have it sooner," Leia said. "The artifact that was stolen from the Jedi Consulate is what the Empire needed to complete the project, and it was too tough to be destroyed where it was found."

"But we know the Empire was able to construct TIE droids before they had that artifact. As Captain Rogriss has told us, she was sent because those droids were used at the Battle of Poln Major."

"Then the artifact was needed to make it fully operational," Leia insisted. It was hard to explain why she was so certain she was right. So often, she dealt with people who thought they knew more than they did, or thought that they were certain when they should only have been confident. But she had the Force, and the Force's guidance occasionally spoke loudly. "If they were able to build so many TIE droids before without that artifact, what can they do now that they have it?"

"Nonsense," Fey'lya objected. "I agree with Councilor Kerrithrarr. And even if they do have such a weapon, the solution is not to send our fleet to fight for an Imperial world! We defeated two Death Stars and we are stronger now than we have ever been! No single station can be a threat to the allied forces of the entire New Republic! We do not need to rush to act before we are ready."

"I'm afraid I agree, Leia," Mon Mothma said softly, her first words spoken. "This Imperial faction is asking us to take a lot on their word. Whether they mean it to be or not, it could be a trap laid by the New Order meant to draw as many of our forces away from our territory so they can launch a surprise attack. We can't take that risk."

"We can't take the risk that this thing exists, either!"

But Leia was the only one on the Council who wanted to take that risk. The others were either vociferously opposed to helping the Empire at all, or opposed to acting in haste on the word of Baron Fel.

She raised her hands. The room gradually stilled around her, then she lowered them and began to speak. "I concede that we cannot send Baron Fel a battle fleet to help protect Poln Major," she said reluctantly. "Especially after what happened with Grand Moff Kaine, the Council is nearly unanimous in its opposition and is correct to be wary. With your permission, I will speak with General Antilles and arrange an observation and reconnaissance force, so that we can see this 'World Devastator' with our own eyes."

Nods went around the room. "That seems wise," agreed Councilor Ackbar. "Until we know Silencer Station's capabilities, we cannot begin to plan an appropriate defense."

Kerrithrarr growled something short and cruel. Threepio glanced at the Wookiee, then shifted uncomfortably. "Councilor Kerrithrarr wishes to express that if one of us is to be the target of the Empire's wrath, it is only fair that it be the Empire."

Asori and Dreyf maintained outer command, but Leia caught twin spikes of shame and rage.

"I would further suggest that Captain Rogriss accompany the observation force," Leia continued. "She knows Poln Major and its defenses and should be able to defuse any potential crises, should our observers be confronted by ships aligned with Baron Fel."

There were fewer nods this time. "I would prefer we keep Captain Rogriss here," Fey'lya countered. "You can send Commander Dreyf. Captain Rogriss is Grand Moff Ferrouz's designated negotiator—we cannot make a deal with Commander Dreyf."

If you had any intention of making a deal, we would already have one, Leia thought dimly. "Commander Dreyf is an intelligence expert. He will be more able to review the information that Baron Fel sent and estimate its importance. Captain Rogriss is a fleet officer, she will be better at interfacing with other fleet officers."

"Councilor Organa-Solo makes her points well," Airen Cracken said. He nodded at Dreyf. "There are still a number of things I would like to ask the Commander about."

Dreyf looked calm enough and he nodded his acquiescence, but Leia could sense his discomfiture. He had no choice in the matter, and Airen must loom as large in his subconscious as Isard did ours.

Fey'lya receded reluctantly into his chair. "Very well," he conceded, eyes promising a reckoning at a later date.

Leia stood. "I move to adjourn, so that I might take Captain Rogriss to confer with General Antilles."

* * *

Asori was still not a prisoner exactly, but she was feeling more like one with each passing hour. Being bartered over by New Republic politicians was an unnerving—and slightly humiliating—experience. As Councilor Organa Solo came to usher her away, she leaned towards Dreyf. "I don't see that we have any choice but to go along."

"I'll be fine," Dreyf promised calmly. "They won't interrogate me. Much. Go help the Admiral. I think you'll be of more help in the battles to come than I would, and Termagant needs you."

"I just can't believe the vaunted New Republic is missing out on a chance to send its full fleet into battle." Asori said, "You'd think they'd want every opportunity to fight the New Order."

Dreyf just shook his head minutely. "Sir, if the implacable enemy you had been fighting for your entire life decided to turn on itself, would you feel a burning need to get involved?"

Asori didn't answer. She didn't need to.

The approaching footsteps of Councilor Solo brought her head up. "We should be moving," Organa Solo murmured, nodding briefly at Dreyf, "before the Council decides to change its mind."

"Is that a concern?"

"In a democracy it's always a concern," the Councilor said dryly. "With me now."

The two of them hurried through the halls, through the gauntlet of guards that parted like waves of grain before a reaper, and out towards the landing pads. Asori practically ran alongside the Councilor, struggling to keep pace with the other woman even though they were of a height. The golden protocol droid which had performed translations in the meeting whirred along behind them, talking unhappily to himself as he did. "Oh my," she heard him say more than once. "Not again! It's almost like the Imperials have another Death Star!"

A shuttle was waiting for them, and a white-haired woman, Winter Celchu, if Asori's briefing slates were at all accurate, stood at its ramp next to a triple-seat hover-stroller, with a pistol belt slung over its handlebars, a metal cylinder hanging from it like a short tail. A lightsaber, similar to Skywalker's. Leia took the weapons and strapped the belt around her formal vestments.

And as Leia bent to whisper something private to her own children and the little baby, Asori could not help but remember all the goodbyes her father had given at the ramps to so many similar shuttles, leaving for weeks and months, and coming back half-remembered.

Her world, her parents, her culture, time with her children. Yet another thing the Empire has stolen.

And I helped.

Leia's eyes were wet with unshed tears as she embraced her friend. When she finally turned back to Asori, Dreyf cleared his throat. The Councilor turned towards the Imperial, wiping her eyes without embarrassment. "Yes, Commander?"

Asori had never seen Dreyf hesitate before, but he hesitated now. "Councilor… I'm from Poln Major. My mother and family are there…"

His voice trailed off. Leia offered him a tight smile and a nod. "I promise, we'll do what we can."

Dreyf swallowed. "Thank you."

Asori said nothing. She waited, she watched, and then she followed Leia up the ramp, Leia's formal cape billowing like the promise of an approaching storm as they left her friend, her children, and Dreyf behind them.

Within five minutes they were departing the Senatorial Skyhook; within ten they were closing on Lusankya's position in orbit. The damaged Super Star Destroyer was swarming with repair teams, patching damage and reinforcing armor with an eye more towards short-term functionality than perfect form. They flew low over the ship's hull, an enormous red Starbird Seal just below them, heading towards the bridge tower. There the mag-sealed opening of the captain's personal hangar loomed; within it were a handful of vehicles. Repair skiffs, a large, industrial-looking freighter, and a single pristine X-wing marked with an impressive-to-the-point-of-absurd number of kill markers.

When they debarked, Asori realized that the gathering was quite a bit larger than it first appeared. Luke Skywalker and Mara Jade were both there, looking grim. So were General Antilles and his aide Atril Tabanne. The last figure she recognized was Han Solo. It was, she thought with a bit of trepidation, a parade of Rebel luminaries.

"I already know about Fel's request for help," Antilles said as they all clustered together. "Cracken sent me the holo. What's the verdict?"

"I got permission for you to send an observation team," Leia said.

The General's eyes narrowed in thought. "Do you think I can designate Lusankya as an observation vehicle?"

That sent a light chuckle rippling around the group, but it was without much genuine amusement. "I think anything as large as a Star Destroyer will need to be accounted for," Leia said.

"Only sub-capital craft then," Wedge nodded. "I expected as much. Atril, you're transferred back to Rendili Vigil. You're hereby ordered to reconstitute Mirage Formation. Take every Mareschal we have in Fifth Fleet—reconnaissance is part of their official mission profile, after all. I'm also lending you all our elite starfighter squadrons, so you'll be taking the Rogues with you. Take Captain Rogriss, too."

Asori's eyes moved from Wedge to Atril, her expression grim. "What are my orders once I'm there?"

"I can't order you to do anything the Inner Council hasn't already authorized," Wedge said. "So observe and use your best judgment according to our rules of engagement."

That was an order no Imperial officer would dream of giving to a junior subordinate. It was simply too broad, too vague, and too subject to interpretation. But then, Asori thought, in this case that was the point. If Wedge and Atril were Imperial officers, there was a good chance that order would get them both brought up for disciplinary action… but they weren't, and she wondered how common that kind of discretionary order was for officers in the New Republic Defense Forces.

From Atril's grim expression as she accepted the weight of the responsibility, it was notably uncommon. "We have seventeen Mareschals in-system. I'll take them all. When are we leaving?"

"The instant you are ready," Councilor Solo said. "We are not giving the Inner Council the chance to change its mind. We'll be leaving for Vigil immediately."

It took her choice of words a few seconds to register. When it did, Asori felt herself staring. She wasn't the only one.

"We?" General Solo asked darkly.

The Councilor took her husband's hand. "Not you, Han. You have duties here… and with Atril serving as my escort, Wedge is going to need you more than ever."

Asori blinked. Nothing in the Inner Council meeting had even hinted at the Councilor going herself as part of the observation team, but that explained the emotion of Leia's parting with Winter. She couldn't imagine a Moff putting himself into that kind of personal danger! Except, she reminded herself belatedly, wasn't that exactly what Grand Moff Kaine had done? But that also got him killed, she thought.

"That misses the point, Leia!" Han exclaimed. "We've got two kids at home! I was already putting myself at risk, but at least I'm going to be on the bridge of a Super Star Destroyer! You're heading off into Imperial space in a barely-tested heavy corvette to a place you've just been told something called a 'World Devastator' is preparing to attack!"

Tabanne's eyes narrowed at the aspersion cast upon her ship—she had helped design the Mareschal, afterall—and Han made a nervous, placating gesture.

"Chewbacca and the Noghri will stay and look after the kids," Leia said firmly. "I already ordered Cakhmaim and Meewalh to protect them while I'm away—I can't bring Noghri to a peace negotiation with the Empire anyway, it would be viewed as an affront. And Winter will be there." She squeezed Han's hands, and Asori felt out of place at being part of this intimate moment, like she was seeing the inner workings of a family she had known for years, but who she had, in truth, barely met. "This is just like Councilor Midanyl going to Corellia, or Grand Moff Kaine coming to us. There's an opportunity here for me to make a difference, maybe create lasting peace, and I'm not going to miss it, because if I do, more people are going to die."

"She won't be alone," Luke said. He glanced at Mara, whose stone face was utterly unreadable, then he said, "Mara and I are coming too."

General Solo's mouth opened and closed a few times. He pointed at Luke, then at Mara, then at Leia, but whatever he almost said he held back. He took a deep breath and shook his head. "I know better than to try to talk you out of this," he graveled. "But I do not like this. I don't like it at all."

"We'd be going even if Leia wasn't. If we had to, we'd go alone," Luke said. "If the artifact we recovered has been used by the New Order to create another Imperial superweapon, it's our responsibility to get it back. And even if it wasn't, as Jedi we can't allow Poln Major to be attacked by that kind of weapon without doing everything we can to stop it."

"How long will it take to have Mirage Formation ready?" asked Mara grimly.

"I'll be ready in a few hours," Atril replied, looking up from her datapad. "It'll take some time to move all the fighter squadrons to the Mareschals, but the personnel transfers are already underway. Are you going to bunk on Rendili Vigil or Tempered Mettle?"

"Mettle," Luke and Mara said as one.

"I'll ride with my brother," Leia said. "Captain Rogriss should go with you. That way you can discuss the best way to approach our arrival while we are in hyperspace."

Asori's eyes met Atril's. "Is that alright with you, Captain?" Atril asked.

"I can't reveal any classified information," Asori said hesitantly, "But yes, we can discuss the best approaches on the way."

"Fine." Atril pressed a few buttons on her datapad. "Vigil doesn't have much in the way of guest capacity, but we have enough." She looked at Antilles, then extended a hand to him. "I'm going to get to work, Wedge. We probably won't see each other again before I leave."

They shook hands. It was a casual gesture, one unlike the formal partings of senior and junior officers that Asori had been a part of. It was more like one of her father's informal, familial partings than anything like Asori's own departures from assignments, and she felt a fierce pang of its absence in her memories. "May the Force be with you, Atril."

"I'm bringing three Jedi," Atril said, jerking her finger towards Luke, Mara, and Leia. "So that's a given."

* * *

"More than three," Luke corrected. He had tried to talk Mara out of coming—tried to convince her to be the one to stay behind—but she made it clear that if he persisted he would actually make her angry, so he had relented. Her pregnancy was still in the very early phases, he reminded himself. It would be a long time before she would need to hold herself back. And, as she had pointed out with grim seriousness, it was their mistake—their personal distraction—that had allowed Roganda to swoop in and pluck the artifact out of the Consulate… and he would need her help to get it back.

Hers would not be the only help.

"We'll need bunks for three others," Luke explained. "Tyria, Streen, and Kirana Ti will be coming too."

Atril tapped away at her datapad, issuing new orders. "I'll find them berths on my other ships."

"All right. Let's move," Wedge said. "Atril, take Captain Rogriss back to Rendili Vigil and get her situated. I'll clear your departure so that the moment you're ready to leave you can."

Han placed his hand on Leia's lower back. "You already said your goodbyes, but we're both going to go call Chewie and the kids and let them know how long we're probably going to be gone. And you, Councilor Organa Solo, are going to convince him that it's okay to stay behind with them when we're going off into obvious danger. He's going to be furious."

Leia winced.

The others started to head in their own directions. Behind him, Luke heard Threepio's sad reflection: "Danger never does leave us alone for very long, does it."

Artoo's somber whistle in reply filled Luke with an indescribable sense of weight and sadness.

With most attention off him, Wedge's resting expression had progressed past concern and had landed on grimly drawn. In the Force, Luke could feel his friend's exhaustion, not just see it in his already-graying hair and premature worry lines. He was suddenly reminded of one of the harder moments of the Rebellion—when they found out that Renegade Squadron and the convoy of supplies it had been escorting had been destroyed by the Empire at Derra IV. The loss had crushed the Rebellion's morale, and despite Wes Janson's antics, Rogue Squadron did not truly recover until Luke's return after their successful evacuation from Hoth. This time, Wedge's exhaustion was not borne of sorrow, but sheer accumulated stress and fatigue.

To Luke's surprise, Mara was the one who initiated the hug. She stepped in close and embraced Wedge, offering murmured words that Luke couldn't hear. The hug didn't linger—even a brief hug was more than Mara typically offered—and then Wedge and Luke shared a much fiercer embrace.

A vision flashed before Luke's eyes. Wedge, not in the beige and blue General's uniform he currently wore, but clad in an orange flight suit, with a green ribbon around his arm, in his X-wing's padded seat. Through the canopy, Luke could see flashes of green and red lasers. Wedge's mouth worked as he spoke into his comm, eyes flashing with tightly suppressed emotion, then the entire cockpit blazed with light as his X-wing was hit by something. Controls sparked and dimmed; the X-wing spun above the ecliptic of a hazy-featured planet.

As they broke apart, the image fled.

Wedge tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly. "What is it?"

Luke managed to keep his sudden fear from being too obvious—or he hoped he did. "Fighter-fear flashbacks. That's all. I thought we were past the worst of it," he said.

Maybe it was a vision of the future. But maybe it wasn't, and allowing the fear that followed from this particular premonition to dictate his decisions—or Wedge's decisions—would surely be the Dark Side.

Always in motion is the future, Yoda's memory-voice quietly reminded him.

Wedge shrugged his shoulders and huffed out a slow exhale. "Someday it'll be someone else's responsibility, but today it's ours. So we carry it."

"Anyone ever tell you you'd make a good Jedi?" Luke asked, too-lightly.

"Stars preserve us!" His friend blanched, rearing back in mock-fear. "If you say that anywhere near Wes, he'll steal me a lightsaber and then I'll have to track down the owner!"

Luke surprised Wedge by giving him another hug. "Take care of yourself, Wedge."

Wedge laughed, patting Luke's back. "You're the one going into the path of a 'World Devastator.' At this point, now that we've confirmed Corellia isn't under any immediate threat with the Imperials busy fighting themselves, I doubt the Inner Council will even let me leave Coruscant. And Han is right—unlike the rest of you, I'll be on the bridge of a Super Star Destroyer. There's no safer place for me to be."

Hours later, Wedge was alone in his quarters—the massive, spacious quarters that were the farthest thing he could imagine from the cramped bunks that the Rogues would be sleeping in aboard Rendili Vigil—when his door chime rang.

He opened the door. Iella was there, wearing an affectionate expression and one of the robes she kept in his stateroom closet. She went into his arms, her hands sliding around his back as she leaned in to steal a kiss. His own hands dropped to her hips and when the kiss broke, they just stood together, foreheads pressed to one another, hands in each others' hair, moving softly.

Wedge knew that Luke and Mara had a gift that other couples could not replicate. The two of them could read one another's minds through the Force, which gave them an intimacy that no couple that lacked their Force gifts could replicate. But Wedge had known Iella for a long time, better each day they spent together. She might be an intelligence operative, but Wedge found her all-too-easy to read.

"You're going with Luke and Mara," he murmured, tightening his arms around her.

Her lips firmed with surprise, and then apology. "Yeah," she admitted. "Cracken wants someone present with an intelligence background, and I'm the only person in the service Mara would be willing to keep close. Don't worry too much, I'll be with Mara, and Kapp is bringing his commando team."

He hated it. But Wedge had hated a lot of things over the years. He'd hated it every time he ordered pilots into battle, knowing many of them wouldn't come back. He'd lost so many friends over the years… and Iella was going with Luke and Mara, two people who had proven to be able to walk across coals and come away with only scars.

So far, his mind whispered insufferably. So far.

"You know I need you," Wedge said, the words coming without thought. "As my friend, and more than my friend, for good." He stroked her cheeks gently, pushing her dark blond hair back over her ears, then he put one hand behind her neck and the other around her waist and drew her to him. "I love you." He pulled her face to his and kissed her, and was lost in the sweetness of her lips.

The milliseconds stretched into full seconds, and her arms snaked around his neck and held him tight. When the kiss broke, because no matter how much he loved her he could not breathe love alone, her lips were curved ever so slightly in an enigmatic smile. "That sounded like a proposal."

"Let me make it formal." Wedge pulled back, but Iella didn't release him.

"Later," she said. "When I come back." She stroked her fingers over the back of his neck. "How long until Rendili Vigil is ready to go?"

"Another few hours at least."

"Good," she sighed, and she kissed him again.

Chapter Text

Tempered Mettle was quieter than Millenium Falcon. With common spaces divided into two separate decks, the upper deck was cozy and homey, and without any of the rattling sounds that the Falcon sometimes made in hyperspace. Artoo was busy collected dishes from dinner—Leia had helped Luke make a simple Alderaanian grain dish as a distraction from all their fears, one that had fed not just Luke, Mara, Iella, and Leia but also Kapp and his commando team—and the astromech balanced them carefully, using skills that Leia had once seen displayed at Jabba's palace.

Leia carefully poured the three cups of caf, placing them on a tray and then carrying them over to where Iella and Mara still sat. Mara had been even more quiet than normal—Mara could be vocal when she had something to say, but just as often she was content to fade into the background and let others carry the conversation unless deliberately dragged into participating—but she offered Leia a grateful nod. "Decaf?" Mara asked.

"Of course," Leia agreed.

Iella frowned at them both. "Of course?" the NRI operative said. She checked her wristcomm. "Why decaf?"

Leia and Mara shared a look. Mara's anxieties were all-too-obvious to Leia—the former Emperor's Hand was normally very, very good at keeping a Sabacc face and concealing her feelings in the Force, but Mara was not too good at either at that moment.

Mara took a deep breath. Leia could see the mental debate going on in her mind, the weighing of the pros and cons. So far, Luke and Mara had only revealed Mara's pregnancy to their family… there had hardly been time to tell anyone else, events had simply moved too fast… but now, even with the urgency of their trip to Poln Major, it would be several days before they could arrive, which would give Mara time to sit and think about her new reality. Leia wasn't sure if Mara would prefer to do that in solitude, or do it with the support from her family and closest friend.

Mara was nothing if not decisive. "I'm pregnant," she said.

New Republic Intelligence trained its operatives very, very well, and so did Corellian Security. One of the prodigal daughters of both institutions, Iella Wessiri moved and spoke as though she hardly needed that training. Like Mara, she was preternaturally good at keeping a calm expression and hiding her surprise. Like Mara, she was constantly on-balance, even-keeled, aplomb and steady.

She tilted to the side in sudden shock, her eyes going wide and a bit of her caf spilling over the edge of her mug. "What!?"

Iella stared at Mara in shock, reeling. Leia could feel the surprise radiating off her in waves.

"Pregnant?!"

Mara just nodded, looking more embarrassed than Leia could ever remember her. "It's not public," Mara said, the words said with a nervy uncertainty that was very unlike Leia's future-sister-in-law. "Luke and I want to keep it a secret for as long as we can… after we've dealt with all this, I want us to take some time away from Coruscant and slugenews, maybe visit a quiet world where we won't attract any attention." Mara was babbling, knew she was babbling, and hated being seen babbling… but couldn't stop herself. Her embarrassment glowed in the Force for Leia to see… which of course, only made the whole thing worse. "Then we need to—"

Iella Wessiri put her mug down, spilling more of the caf onto the table, and pulled Mara out of the chair. Leia saw Mara's eyes widen in surprise for a moment before she was pulled into Iella's tight embrace… and then Mara reluctantly melted into it, taking the combination of comfort and confidence that Iella offered.

When their embrace broke, Leia hugged Mara herself. She knew just how much Mara hated being seen as anything other than strong, but this was just Leia and Iella. They already knew Mara as well as anyone—other than Luke—in the galaxy. In that moment, Leia could feel as Mara allowed herself to be uncertain and confused, and allowed their strength to give her back the confidence that surprise and change had wounded.

Hours later, they had been quite distracted from all of the turmoil of galactic politics, superweapons, and Imperial tyrants. "Luke and Wedge ran a squadron of idiot toddlers for years," Iella said. "The only thing they haven't done is change diapers—though, the jury is still out on Janson. If they can handle raising toddlers who get to fly X-wings, I'm sure you can handle a Force-strong toddler"

Mara knew that Iella was trying to make her smile. To her chagrin, It was working.

"Jacen and Jaina aren't weren't different from normal toddlers," Leia added, the voice of experience. "We didn't have them throwing spoons around during tantrums or anything like that. They're more emotionally attuned to one another and the people around them than normal children… but some other parents tell me that even non-Force strong children are always very aware of how their parents are feeling, so maybe that isn't even that different from the norm."

"You've babysat the twins and Mia," Iella pointed out. "If you can handle that, you can handle anything. Is it a boy or a girl?"

"I don't know," Mara said. "Luke and I didn't check… and it's so early still, we only had time for a cursory checkup to make sure everything is healthy." She took a nervous breath. This was all still so unbelievable. How could she be pregnant? Pregnant? How could she have been so irresponsible as to…

Fall in love with Luke Skywalker and want to share intimacy with him? That wasn't irresponsible. Having Luke be part of her life—her friend, her partner, her lover—wasn't a mistake. It was the best thing she'd ever allowed herself to do.

Still. She wasn't normal. She had been the Emperor's Hand. Palpatine had raised her to be a tool, an unknowing agent of his darkness. How could she ever be sure that she was free from his influence? His voice had long since stopped plaguing her waking nightmares, but her past was immutable, permanent. What would that mean for her as a mother? What would it mean for her child?

The only parental figure Mara had ever had was Emperor Palpatine.

"Mara," Iella said. She looked up, found her friend giving her an intent stare. The intuitions that had made Iella Wessiri one of the galaxy's premiere investigators were on full display, because somehow Mara could tell that Iella knew exactly what she was thinking. "You're free. Palpatine is part of your past. He always will be. But now you're free—and you're not alone."

Mara couldn't bring herself to say anything. She didn't know what to say. There was nothing to say.

In Iella Wessiri's gaze was an intensity that matched the sense of certain purpose that Mara had felt when she had been Emperor's Hand. "I promise."

Asori Rogriss was deeply impressed by what she saw about Rendili Vigil. The ship was small—significantly smaller than her own Termagant—but it crammed a great deal of capability into that small space. That came with its own costs, and Asori was quite sure that Vigil's comparatively light armor and heavy emphasis on speed would not always be to the ship's advantage, but it was still impressive, and a confirmation that the New Republic was working hard to translate its growing military advantage into a something that could easily patrol spacelanes in a time of peace and for a fraction of the cost of a bulk cruiser or Star Destroyer.

Perhaps more impressive than the ship itself was the crew. Asori noted few humans among Vigil's crew. Other than Commodore Tabanne and some of the Rogues, most of the crew was non-human, but all spoke Basic and it never impeded on the ship's function. It was yet more evidence, hard evidence, that the old Imperial line about the inferiority of non-humans, and the difficulties of cross-species cooperation, were at best overstated… and far more likely to be complete fabrications.

They gave her as wide a berth as they could, given the compact nature of Vigil's interior architecture. Virtually none of the ship's volume was wasted, which helped explain how the New Republic's designers had managed to cram as many weapons and systems in as they had, but it also meant that there wasn't a whole lot of room for individual accommodations. Compared to Star Destroyers, which were spacious almost to the point of absurdity, Vigil was downright confining. New Republic officers, dressed in their fleet's blue and beige colors, brushed past her despite their best efforts, and more than once Asori found herself annoyedly brushing fur off her uniform.

There wasn't any right place for her to be. Vigil did have a small brig and there were times she thought that maybe she should confine herself to it just out of sheer principle. She wasn't a prisoner, technically, but despite her liberty she still felt like one. She had felt like one ever since her arrival on Coruscant. The only times she hadn't felt like one were when she'd been engrossed in some formal briefing about the military threat with an officer of equal or superior rank from the New Republic, treating her as a resource and a colleague.

"Captain Rogriss?"

She turned. Rendili Vigil's Bothan communications officer Hiacun was there, holding a datapad.

He handed it to her. "Commodore Tabanne would like to invite you to join her to discuss the situation at Poln Major at your convenience. She'll be in her quarters."

Asori nodded, the kind of nod that expressed approval of a deserving subordinate. "Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll be sure to do that."

When she served as Exigent's executive officer, Asori had been lavished with enormous quarters. An Imperial-class Star Destroyer had plenty of interior space, and her quarters had stretched into a three room suite, including a decadent refresher. Her quarters on Termagant were far smaller, yet still comfortable.

Commodore Tabanne's quarters were cramped. She did have two rooms, one out of sight that Asori assumed was a bedroom. The public room was a combination of a kitchenette, living space, and briefing room; in the middle of the room was a decently-sized table which had been folded down out of one of the walls.

Atril herself stood on the far side of the table. "Take a seat."

"I wasn't expecting a formal dinner," Asori said uncertainly.

"We'll eat and work," Atril promised. "Besides, when I was a guest of your father, he made sure I was fed and watered. It's the least I can do to return the favor." She gestured at the chair on Asori's side of the room. "Try and relax a bit."

She set aside the mention of Atril having been a guest of her father for later. Slowly, Asori sat. After she settled into the chair, Atril sat across from her.

"I'm afraid my ship doesn't have the same comforts of a Star Destroyer," Atril said, though Asori thought that the Commodore's tone wasn't exactly apologetic, and wondered if she was being tested, "but I we do have ship's cooks and they do have the ability to cook for guests, on occasion. Plus, we just left Coruscant, so we're well-stocked with fresh fare."

"That's very kind of you," Asori said graciously. The last thing she wanted was to alienate her host. As troublesome as the New Republic's Inner Council had been, both the Jedi and the New Republic military had been nothing other than respectful to her, and it was the least she could do to return that respect. "Have you had the opportunity to review my report on Poln Major's defenses?"

"I have," Atril said with a nod. She gestured at the food, a well spiced offering of perfectly-cooked and citrus-braised fish over slightly nutty groats. "I know it's not what your father's steward would serve, but it's the best I have available. As for Poln Major's defenses, you were quite clear about best approach techniques but somewhat vague about just how many ships your Unknown Regions Expeditionary Fleet has available for its defense."

"There are certain things which I'm not at liberty to share," Asori countered, keeping her tone light.

"Then let me ask the big picture question. Does the UREF have additional forces it can use to defend Poln Major from the New Order's imminent attack?"

That was a reasonably safe question to answer. "We do."

"Do you personally think it will be enough to protect the system, assuming my ships are there to offer reinforcement?"

Asori hesitated before answering, using a taste of the dinner as her excuse to do so. She was surprised at how flavorful it was—and she was doubly surprised that it tasted as good as it did. She nearly took a second bite before answering, but resisted the impulse. "If the New Order were attacking with a Super Star Destroyer, I would say yes," she said. "But I don't know how to estimate the capabilities of this 'Silencer Station'. If it's as capable as a Death Star…" her words trailed off, and she offered a small shrug.

"I suppose without a convenient exhaust port to shoot at, we'd be stuck fighting it the old fashioned way."

Asori nodded. "And the Death Star had shields and armor strong enough to deflect any conventional assault. At Endor, the second Death Star was effectively rammed by Executor and did not appear to suffer any significant structural damage. If Silencer Station has similar defensive capabilities, I don't know that any conventional force would be capable of defeating it."

Atril's lips thinned together. "And the UREF doesn't have some superweapon of its own stashed away somewhere that could do the job."

"If it does," Asori said carefully, "neither Grand Moff Ferrouz nor Baron Fel has seen fit to inform me about it." She took another bite of the dish. "This is quite tasty."

"It's 'Plasma-charred Cheshi-Fish'. Came out of the Rebellion actually. Bothans love seafood but hate getting their fur wet, and most Mon Cal designs have a few aquaculture tanks aboard – some fresh food helps morale, plus it's fun to stare at on long patrols. I'm told it became common at Rebel Bases during the Civil War after the Bothans joined the cause. It's easy to make and from common ingredients. I once heard an X-wing pilot describe it as the single most important contribution the Bothans made to the war effort. Hiacun sometimes makes it for the crew."

"Your Bothan communications officer," Asori checked.

Atril nodded. There was a sudden shift in her expression, a slight hardening of the other woman's eyes… but Asori saw her take a breath and let it out, and the moment passed.

"When did you have the opportunity to dine with my father?"

It was the wrong question to ask. The hardness was back, and this time it took Atril a longer moment to push past it. Atril sighed heavily, putting her utensil down before leaning back in her chair. "I was a prisoner of his briefly, during the Ukio campaign. He pinned Ession Strike, my previous command, with an Interdictor and a pair of Impstars."

"... Ah," Asori said. She nodded choppily. "I hope it was a … cordial affair?"

Atril laughed lightly. "He did his best," she conceded. "Set a very good table, but I ate ration bars and water. Still, he was courteous and kind. Given what happened afterwards, I certainly am glad it was him who captured us, and not someone else."

"I see… ration bars and water?"

"I refused to eat any of the fancier fare on offer, since I hadn't been allowed to see my crew. He assured me that their interrogations would not cause any long-lasting harm, and that he wouldn't allow me to be executed as a defector, given… well, the fact that I had defected."

This was definitely precarious ground, and Asori wished they were having some other conversation. Any other conversation. An odd combination of guilt and defensiveness fought for dominance in her gut. She allowed neither to win.

"He kept his word," Atril admitted. "When he disappeared, I worried that perhaps ISB had punished him for that. When next you see him, thank him for me."

Asori managed, barely, to fight back her sigh of relief. "We were recruited by the UREF," she explained. "They pulled me off of Exigent, my brother from his base on Sartinaynian, and took my father's entire Star Destroyer. It was quite the surprise."

"What changed afterwards? With the UREF compared to the Empire, I mean."

That was a hard question. Asori took a moment to debate it before answering, deciding first and foremost not to contest the fact that the UREF was the Empire. "The New Order… COMPNOR, ISB… they made it impossible to breathe or question without feeling like I had a blaster to my head. With the UREF, I think we're all feeling a little more… free." She took a bite, and watched the other woman regard her, with, she thought, a small bit of respect. Then she fired her return salvo. "If I can ask, what made you leave?"

Atril almost laughed; she did smile in a way that warmed the room around her. "You served with the Empire, so this will make sense to you," she said. "With the Empire, you could never trust the people above or below you in the chain of command. Oh, everyone puts on a brave and forthright face, and they'd say the right things, but the entire structure was rife with corruption—and not just ISB. I remember one junior officer, an Ensign from a prominent Coruscanti family I had under my command while I was a Lieutenant on Arlionne. He was bitter he hadn't been promoted to Lieutenant as 'befitted his station,' and he took out his unhappiness by being insubordinate.

"Worse, I caught him pocketing supplies and selling them and when I brought him up on charges I got lectured by my CO, while he got a promotion and a transfer! And above me, Captains like the man who protected him were everywhere. Competition for officer slots was intense, but competition for officer slots with Captains who had a good reputation… those were worth their weight in Corusca gems."

Captain Nidal had been a good, fair-minded officer, Asori remembered. That was why she'd fought so hard to be posted to Exigent, and why getting pulled away so abruptly had been so frustrating.

"What is it?"

Asori realized that the thought had not stayed confined to her brain, and the sad frown she was wearing had become obvious to her dinner partner. She hesitated, debating how best to answer, and then surrendered. "One of my best COs was killed at the last battle of Poln Major," she said sadly. "He sided with Ferrouz after Carida and Exigent led the defense during their last attack. The pride of being the first ship in the line, and all that… we crushed the New Order, but it cost us Exigent."

She put down her knife, realizing that she was gripping it too tightly.

"I lost one of mine, too," Atril said. "I was just a Lieutenant then." She laughed softly and shook her head. "Captain Hrakness. He was commanding Ession Strike—though she was still called Night Caller, we hadn't won the Battle of Ession yet—and the bridge took a direct hit. I was still new and as a defector there were many in the New Republic military who didn't trust me yet. Choday took me under his wing. Being promoted to Captain to replace him…" her voice faded and she shook her head, "It didn't sit right. Still doesn't some days."

"I knew Choday Hrakness!" Asori exclaimed, looking up in surprise. "He served on Arlionne. He defected?" She thought back. Arlionne had been an ancient Victory-class Star Destroyer, and her first assignment out of the Academy on Anaxes. Hrakness had been a Lieutenant Commander then—young but grizzled, wise beyond his years—and had been on Asori's list of 'good officers.' She shook her head… if Hrakness had been disgruntled with the Starfleet, she had never seen a sign of it from him. "Did he ever say anything about why he defected?"

To Asori's surprise, Atril laughed softly. "Small galaxy," she murmured. The Commodore leaned back in her chair, gesturing at Asori with her index finger. "And you sound just like your father, you know. During my cordial interrogation, he asked me why I defected, too."

Suddenly concerned that she may have stepped onto precarious ground, Atril sat up straighter. "I did not mean to pry, Commodore," she said, letting her tone shift from the more familiar back into Starfleet formal.

But Atril waved her concerns away. "Choday and I had similar experiences. Abusive senior officers created resentment and doubt. Then we had our noses rubbed in the Empire's corruption. What finally set Choday off was an anti-smuggler operation. His ship boarded a transport and seized its 'smuggled' cargo. Days later he found out the Captain of his ship had never reported the seizure and re-sold it at their next port. He was offered a cut for his silence, which he took because he believed that if he refused, he would be put out an airlock. Then he quietly slipped away."

Old anger curdled in Asori's gut. She had heard such stories before; scuttlebutt from other fleet officers was common. Her mother had warned her, again and again, that the Empire was corrupt and would only become more corrupt. That despite what COMNPOR and ISB said, that the coming of the Empire hadn't removed the corruption of the Old Republic, it had institutionalized it, and made it part of the fabric of governance.

"May I ask you a question in return?" Atril prodded, and at a nod from Asori, she proceeded. "From what you've said… you're not oblivious to the problems of the Empire, and you weren't one of those exploiting them. Why didn't you defect?"

The question hung in the air between them. Asori put her silverware down, then looked at her hands. "I thought about it, over the years," she admitted. "In quiet moments, especially after I heard that someone I knew had gone over to the Rebellion."

She looked up, found Atril gazing back attentively. For better or worse, Asori had the Commodore's full attention.

"I'm sure you had it worse at the Academy than I did," Asori added quietly, allowing herself to digress, working her way through her thoughts aloud. "My mother didn't want me to join. She didn't want me to become part of the Empire, like my father had. I could have escaped it, too… my brother had to join, the social expectation that he would follow our father's path was just too strong on Anaxes, the Starfleet is everything there. Or… well, it was. I don't know, now that it's owned by the New Republic." She was babbling, but Atril didn't stop her, so she kept babbling. "As a woman, I could have escaped it. But I was the older child and if Terek was going to have to join, it felt wrong not to join myself. And I always looked up to my father."

On the far side of the table, Atril leaned to her side. She flicked open a cabinet, grabbed two mugs with a nimble grip, and put them on the table. She then reached back and plucked a bottle of cheap wine from the shelf, flicking the vacuum seal. "I have detox meds," she said as she poured, then handed a glass to Asori.

The two women saluted each other in an obnoxiously formal manner taught to all Imperial cadets, and drank.

It wasn't the best wine Asori had ever had—far from it—but that was hardly the point. "And then I was in," Asori continued, still tasting the wine on her tongue. She could hear the almost plaintive tone of her voice, as if she was trying to persuade Atril of something, but of what she wasn't entirely sure. "If I had left, if I'd defected… it would have been about more than just me. My father and brother would both have been suspected as accomplices. ISB isn't known for its judiciousness—they could have been accused of treason in my place, maybe even be executed. And even if the… the New Order was horrible, was everything the Rebellion propagandists said it was, I had friends and colleagues in the Starfleet. Like Captain Nidal, who always looked out for his crew! I could tell myself I wasn't fighting for the New Order, I was fighting for them. So they could survive the battle and go home to their families. And they were fighting so I could. We weren't fighting for the Empire, we were fighting for each other."

Her voice grew stronger; whether it was momentum or alcohol Asori wasn't sure. "Even if every single one of us hated the Empire we couldn't talk about it! Any of us could have been ISB, and even the hint of disloyalty could… So everyone had to defect alone… and I was never alone. I had my father and brother to think about."

Suddenly exhausted, Asori sank into her chair.

"At least that's what I tell myself. Told myself. When it was easier to look away."

"I was alone," Atril said softly. Asori looked up, saw the other woman sitting in her chair at the far side of the table, holding her now half-empty wine glass. Her eyes were lidded. "The unit I defected from was staffed with people I hated. The Empire potentially killing them all for complicity in my crime would have been a bonus, not a bug." Atril took a sip of her wine, licking it from her lips before continuing. "I hadn't talked to my parents since I left to go to the Academy, and they were nobodies. The Empire doesn't usually concern itself with people from Coruscant's poorest neighborhoods."

Atril's eyes locked on Asori's, and Asori suddenly felt trapped and immobile. In the back of her mind, she knew that being this open was probably a terrible idea—UREF or no UREF, this entire conversation would not reflect well upon her if it ever leaked back to Ferrouz or Fel. All the same, she didn't want it to end.

For a time, neither of them spoke, drinking in a companionable silence. Then Atril smiled again. "More wine? Another glass of this and I may even show you my Cadet ID holo."

Asori reached out with her glass. "Please. Can't be worse than mine."

Chapter Text

Silencer Station now had a throne room.

Irek had never been in the Emperor's throne room during the Empire's heyday. He was old enough to remember the Empire, but only in vague snippets, and his mother had kept him secluded with droid nannies and tutors. Clearer in his memory were the days following the catastrophic Battle of Endor and the subsequent adventure of his mother spiriting him out of their secret penthouse, only moments ahead of agents of Imperial Intelligence. He had thought it all a game at the time, realizing only much later just how seriously Ysanne Isard's goons had been intent on seeing them both dead.

Even in their subsequent exile, his mother had never let him forget that he was destined to be Emperor. He was strong in the Force, as the Emperor had been and as any Emperor must be. True wisdom and power came from the Force, and that was the point of the Force: to bestow wisdom and power on the chosen few, so that they might rule the blind.

Though he had never seen the Emperor's throne room, this space had an obvious splendor to it. It was an octagonal room with multiple concentric layers, so that anyone who entered would have to climb up stairs to the center. In that center was the throne. A new command interface, replicating the one that Cray had constructed, had been built into the polished mixture of durasteel and inset ebonwood, a messy array of wires formed into a gleaming crown that would descend down to fit over Irek's head when he sat upon it. All around the room were massive flatscreens and holoprojectors that would give the Emperor a plethora of visual information and feedback—although Irek knew from experience that just using the interface itself caused an overwhelming swell of sightsandsoundsandfeelings directly to his mind.

Perhaps, he thought trepidatiously, once he became accustomed to using the interface it would not be so overwhelming.

His stomach roiled, but though his back went damp with sweat he tried not to show his fear on his face. His last experience using the interface had been… he shied away from the word, but in the privacy of his own mind, away from the judgment of his mother or Halmere, he could not deny the experience had been terrifying. He did not want to use the interface again, but his mother needed him to keep them safe.

She was not to be disappointed.

She had spent her entire life fighting to protect him, fighting to see him elevated and crowned and the very least he could do would be to protect her.

Still, he wished Cray and Nichos were here. The two cyberneticists had become… a comfort to him. Nichos in particular—while the crippled cyberneticist was worthy only of shame in so many ways, his conversations had surprising wisdom to them. It had been Nichos' suggestion, after all, that allowed Irek to successfully command Silencer-7 with Cray's command interface.

Instead, Irek had only Halmere. The Emperor-Regent loomed, his large frame and heavy black and white armored robes providing the pale man with presence and dominating the space. But Halmere's attention was only partially on Irek—the older man had spent hours secluded in meditation, working with the station's astrogation computer. As Irek had… meditated… himself over having to sit in the new command throne, Halmere had worked silently, plotting hyperspace courses. On one of the throne room's large flatscreens, a map of Imperial space glowed with tiny triangular symbols, each one representing one of the New Order's remaining Star Destroyers. Halmere drew up courses for each one, guiding them through temporary hyperlanes that would normally be too risky for travel. Thanks to Halmere's astrogation, those Star Destroyers would be able to assemble into a single formation quickly, forming a reserve to defend Silencer Station.

At the moment, Halmere's attention remained on his meditation and astrogation. His dismissiveness of Irek was mildly insulting, but at the same time being ignored was better than being actively belittled.

Fear and obligation warred for control of his actions, and their combination rendered him in stasis. He stood at the bottom of the concentric layers, looking up at the throne and the constructed interface attached to it. This was his future, this was what it meant to be Emperor, to rule and to shape. This was what his mother had fought for, what he had been destined to since his birth. The obligation was strong, tugging him to climb up to the throne, to take it for himself.

But the voice of the AI, the sensation of being swallowed by a consciousness of seemingly infinite size, and his fear of that voice, rendered him still.

There was only one entrance to the throne room and Irek felt his mother's presence beyond it even before it slid open. Roganda Ismaren swept into the space, wearing a regal dress appropriate for the mother of the Emperor, crafted into black ruffles that swirled but did not hinder her steps. Her gaze locked upon him as she entered, and it seemed like the air around him became heavy with electricity as she approached.

"Son," she said.

"Mother," he greeted in return, trying to keep the uncertain waver felt out of his voice. He succeeded, but it didn't matter—she didn't need to hear the fear to feel it radiating off him in the Force. He'd never been able to hide anything from her.

She looked past him towards Halmere, her lips tightening with unhappiness, then returned her gaze to him. That expression was one he recognized all too well, it was the expression she had turned on him all his life after he had disappointed her. "You have not taken your throne."

"I wanted to wait until you returned," he lied.

Her eyebrows rise incrementally, her dark eyes measuring him. "I am here," she pointed out.

In the battle between obligation and terror, obligation won. He'd never been able to deny his mother anything and he could not deny her this. Despite his fear, despite his reluctance, he began to climb towards the throne. The stairs became steeper the higher he went, forcing him to be more careful with each step. At the top, he stumbled into the chair just to have the safety of secure balance.

The throne began to whir, the finely-machined inner workings of the machine shifting. He placed his hands on the armrests, in small indentations perfectly sized for them. Behind him, the interface sized precisely for his head settled over his head, cold metal pressing against his scalp; pressure in his skull grew as the neural connections were established one by one.

A whir, and a floor panel swept up, exposing an IV arm of nutrients and stimulants that reached out to his arm and hissed into his veins.

Fear and pain intermingled as the connections became more intense. He was aware of his mother and Halmere watching him, watching Silencer-7's tendrils insinuate themselves in his mind.

The moment of mergence passed and Irek's consciousness swam on a sea of thought. All around him was Silencer-7: its constant processing and evaluations, its sensors keeping watch as the station traveled through hyperspace, its awareness of him. It was as if Silencer-7 closed around him, suffocating, the sheer loudness of the AI almost drowning out Irek's own thoughts.

WELCOME, [DESIGNATE] EMPEROR.

The words sounded different than they had. Irek was no longer conscious of his body, could no longer feel his limbs or see with his own eyes, and yet still the words brought to mind the sensation of the hair on his arms, all sticking straight up.

WHAT IS YOUR WILL, [DESIGNATE] EMPEROR?

Was the AI placing more emphasis on the word 'designate' than it had been? There was a faint edge to the AI's tone, almost mocking. Irek set his jaw hard, scowling. "I am the Emperor," he claimed.

NOT YET.

Now Irek was sure it was mocking him. Was sure that the AI was toying with him. He had seen his mother toy with her prey on occasion—that one Intelligence operative she had captured, when he was much younger. She had kept that agent alive for weeks, stretching out his interrogation, extracting information with caresses and lightning alike. It had been a game to her—a game she had been very good at. He had admired her skill and power… but now he felt like the toy.

"I will be," he insisted fiercely, putting all his mother's confidence into the words.

The AI did not bother to respond. He could feel it, watching him from every angle, and somehow just being watched made him feel judged. I am not inadequate!

YOU FEAR. THE EMPEROR DOES NOT FEAR.

"I am the Emperor!" Irek insisted again, but even to his own ear the words sounded lame.

WHAT IS YOUR WILL, [DESIGNATE] EMPEROR?

The words he spoke came from beyond him, from the outside. "We are almost clear of hyperspace. Attack Poln Major when we are. Tactics at your discretion."

Was that a smirk Irek felt? And if it was, who did it belong to?

AS YOU COMMAND.

"Are you sure this is necessary?"

Gilad Pellaeon watched from the bridge of Chimaera. His fleet had dozens of logistics freighters, each loaded heavily with supplies meant to keep his Star Destroyers and smaller vessels combat-capable. Everything from food to concussion missiles was normally stocked on those ships, which could be tucked into a Star Destroyer's main hangar for quick loading and unloading.

At the moment, though, they had been turned to another purpose. Freighters lifted off from the surface of Poln Major, carrying families who had chosen to evacuate rather than stay. Grand Moff Ferrouz had chosen to inform people of the threat posed by the 'World Devastator', and many had chosen to evacuate. Each freighter rushed to Pellaeon's trio of Star Destroyers to disgorge their passengers, and Chimaera, Basilisk, and Gonfalon each were becoming host to a growing number of civilian refugees.

Next to him, Grand Moff Ferrouz watched, blank-faced, as the evacuation continued. He and his family had been among the first evacuees—a fact that had been widely publicized, in order to encourage the rest of the population to do the same.

"If the threat turns out to be overstated," Pellaeon continued, frowning, "we'll have undermined the planet's defenses unnecessarily. I can't take my Star Destroyers into battle—not with so many civilians aboard."

"Admiral Rogriss and the reserve fleet will be here," Ferrouz said. The Grand Moff's hands were folded behind his back, his attention locked on the sight of a transport vanishing into Basilisk's main hangar, escorted by a formation of TIE fighters. "They will be responsible for primary defense." Ferrouz shook his head. "Poln Major is an insignificant world by galactic standards. There is nothing down there worth more than the lives of its people. Baron Fel has assured me that there are numerous hospitable colony worlds under the control of the UREF, each of them hidden from the New Order."

Pellaeon did not like it. He did not like it at all. Since Endor it sometimes felt like he had never stopped running. Running from the Rebellion at Endor became running from the New Republic at Bilbringi and Ukio. Then he ran from the New Order at Carida, and was preparing to run again from the New Order at Poln Major. He'd run so far that his back was against the Unknown Regions and he was still running.

Clustered up against his formation, in a defensive posture, were the four Lively-class frigates that had been under the command of Captain Asori Rogriss. Pellaeon had found himself thinking about the young officer quite a lot since their discussion at the governor's mansion in Whitestone City. She had been so outspoken, so confident… and so bluntly dismissive of the Empire.

At first, he had taken refuge in the idea that she was merely too young to really understand. She hadn't lived under the Old Republic and the dysfunction of the Senate. She hadn't seen the inadequacies of the old Judicial Forces, the lack of preparation to address the threat of the Separatists. She hadn't seen the corruption that had been wrought through the halls of the Senate.

And yet… What if she was right?

It was a hard question for Pellaeon to ask himself. He had spent his life fighting for the Empire, and he was not a young man. He had decades of service behind him, and decades more for the Republic that had preceded the Empire. He knew things could be bad, that the Empire had not fixed every problem—he prided himself on not being one of ISB's useful idiots—but he had always been sure that the cause he fought for had been a just one.

What if it hadn't been?

He spent far too much time, thinking back, wondering if he could find a moment, some precise time and place, where his loyalty had become dishonorable. Had it been the declaration of Empire? But from his perspective, so little had changed after that. Palpatine had been Chancellor, then he had been Emperor. Orders had even still had the Senate's seal of approval.

But…

But he knew, didn't he. He'd long refused to let the thought resolve in his mind, but at the back of his skull he could feel lurking a memory. The first time Captain Drusan had ordered Chimaera to Kashyyyk. The first time Pellaeon's ship had sent stormtroopers down to the surface. The first time they had come back with prisoners.

"Status change!"

Pellaeon and Ferrouz turned towards the cry of alarm, then towards the command board. Upon it, a number of ships appeared at the edge of Poln Major's gravity well, already building speed again after their hyperspace transition.

"They're freighters, sir," someone announced, sounding relieved.

"Message for you, Admiral," announced Lieutenant Tschel from beside him. His expression was oddly uncertain… "It's Talon Karrde."

"Karrde?" Pellaeon said in surprise, and with more than a hint of anger. Talon Karrde's betrayals had long since earned him Pellaeon's ire. "What is he doing here?"

Tschel took a nervous breath. "He says his ships are here at the behest of the Jedi Order to assist with the planet's evacuation."

The beginning of a hot retort was on Pellaeon's tongue—

Grand Moff Ferrouz noticed Pellaeon's expression and anger and held up a soothing hand. "Tell Captain Karrde that we appreciate his assistance, and send them landing information," ordered Ferrouz from where he stood beside Pellaeon. "This is not the time for old rivalries, Admiral. We do not want to be enemies of the New Republic any longer—and we need their help."

"Of course," Pellaeon said with gruff stiffness. "Do as the Grand Moff orders," he relayed to his crew. Then he looked back to Tschel. "How did they get through the New Order patrols?" he asked. "All the major hyper-routes have regular Interdictor patrols."

Tschel shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, sir."

"Status change!"

This time, the new icons on the command board weren't freighters. Luckily, they were expected.

The Star Destroyer Agonizer came out of hyperspace, accompanied by seven other Imperial-class Star Destroyers. An array of smaller ships, including Victory, Enforcer, and Katana-class warships were their escorts. Most prominent was the cluster of Lively-class ships. TIEs and Clawcraft swarmed out of their hangars, immediately assuming CAP positions, while the entire formation moved rapidly into Poln Major's gravity well, into position to defend the planet.

"Communication for you from Admiral Rogriss, sir," said Tschel.

Pellaeon activated his flatscreen. Teren Rogriss grinned at him. "Your reinforcements have arrived, Gilad. Remain as you are, continue with the evacuation, and await further developments. When Silencer Station gets here, we'll engage it first."

"Glad to have you, sir," Pellaeon said, offering a quick salute.

Rogriss returned it, far more casually. "And you, Gilad. Please extend my compliments to your people."

Irek had never been integrated with Silencer-7 while the station was in hyperspace. It was an odd sensation: almost all of the station's sensor arrays were useless in hyperspace, so there were far fewer sensory inputs that the station had to process and fewer things that Irek himself needed to monitor. That left him in a state of relative calm, floating in the sea of Silencer-7's consciousness. He was barely conscious of his body in this state—he could tell that he still had one, of course, but even the sounds of his mother and Halmere, who were also in the station's throne room, were distant to the point of insignificance.

While his fear remained, his terror had largely subsided. If Silencer-7 was going to consume him, drag him down to drown in its vastness, it would have done so before now. To Silencer-7, Irek was just a conduit, a conductor of information from the humans who had constructed it.

"How do I become Emperor?" he asked. "And not just Designate-Emperor."

There was a ripple as attention turned to him.

THE EMPEROR IS THE WILL.

"What does that mean?"

He could feel the AI's consternation and attempt to reformulate its answer. It had only limited success.

TO BECOME EMPEROR THE [DESIGNATE] EMPEROR MUST BECOME THE WILL.

"What is the Will?"

A flood of emotion and memory washed over Irek. He grappled with it, trying to prevent it from washing away his sense of self under the sudden torrent of otherness. He saw glimpses of memory, or fantasy. Aliens from a race he did not recognize, working with Dark Force powers to empower objects that looked like the Seed his mother had installed in Silencer-7's core. Dark figures in flowing robes, with power in their eyes and red lightsabers in their hands. Lightning and might, command and purpose, subjugation and demand, all swirling in Irek's mind. All of it was confined in Silencer Station, a box that both contained and unleashed it.

THE WILL.

"H-how do I become the Will?" he asked warily, once he had regained the ability to formulate clear thoughts.

YOU MUST STOP RESISTING.

Irek frowned in consternation. What was that supposed to mean? "How am I resisting?"

EXITING HYPERSPACE.

All the sensors that had been silent roared to life as one. Monitors all around the station's throne room abruptly illuminated, and both upon the flatscreens and within Irek Ismaren's mind there was the sudden image of a star system. Icons blinked into existence one by one, marking the presence of enemy ships—dozens and dozens of enemy ships—and all of them surrounding and defending a circle marked Poln Major.

Irek opened his mouth to speak, preparing to relay orders from Halmere and Roganda to the station. Silencer-7 did not wait for him.

PREPARING TO ENGAGE. MANUFACTURING SWITCHING FROM STARFIGHTER PRODUCTION TO ANTI-SHIP COUNTERMEASURES. SHIELDS AND ARMOR AT PEAK EFFICIENCY. EVALUATING ENEMY CAPABILITIES.

. . .

PROBABILITY OF COMBAT VICTORY ESTIMATED AT NINETY-EIGHT POINT FIVE PERCENT.

Silencer Station's massive engines erupted and the platform began to move slowly through space, on a direct trajectory towards Poln Major. Even as Irek tried, he could not get a word in.

ENEMIES OF THE EMPIRE WILL BE ELIMINATED. THIS IS THE WILL.

* * *

On the monitors in Silencer Station's throne room, text whirred across the screens in large block letters.

ENEMIES OF THE EMPIRE WILL BE ELIMINATED. THIS IS THE WILL.

Roganda Ismaren looked up. Her son was ensconced in the command throne, silent and still, his mouth half-open. Words seemed to pass over his lips silently, but whatever it was he was saying was not meant for her and Halmere, but for the Silencer AI. Bond between man and machine would not be complete—not yet, not until after Irek had formally proclaimed himself Emperor—but the integration seemed more stable this time.

"You see, Halmere?" Roganda murmured with pride, smiling. "I prepared him all his life for this."

"Preen when we've won, Roganda," Halmere grunted. "Not before."

"Oh, I intend to," Roganda promised him with a smirk.

* * *

Battle klaxons screamed. Gilad Pellaeon smacked his command console to silence them.

"This is Admiral Rogriss!" called Teren's voice over the communications unit. "UREF vessels adopt conical formation, and prepare to engage the enemy!"

Teren's formation shifted into a broad, expanded formation designed to maximize their forward firepower. The outer edges pushed forwards while the inner ships pulled back slightly, putting them all roughly the same distance from the enemy. Any gun with a firing solution was trained precisely forward, giving the formation the ability to hurl as much firepower at a single target as possible. It was an amazingly aggressive posture, sacrificing defense to maximize the pain they could cause in the shortest possible time.

In the distance, far beyond Teren's ships, was the World Devastator.

A blocky, rectangular thing, the World Devastator was painted the kind of matte black that blocked out the space around it. It was larger than Pellaeon had expected, even larger than their intelligence had suggested. From side to side it was larger than two Imperial-class Star Destroyers pressed prow to engines. As Pellaeon watched, the Devastator's massive, rectangular central core slowly rotated towards the Imperial ships arrayed to fight it, presenting its underbelly. Pellaeon found himself looking at four feet, which framed the Devastator's four corners—they looked remarkably like AT-AT hooves—and an expanse of pure blackness.

But as he watched, that blackness flickered. Light coruscated across the Devastator's underbelly, coalescing into four lines that formed a rectangle around the void. Once those four lines were illuminated and bright, the space between them began to glow. Dimly at first, but brighter and brighter as Pellaeon watched, until the entire bottom of the Devastator blazed like a star.

* * *

MOLECULAR FURNACE ACTIVE. ANTI-SHIP COUNTERMEASURES PREPARED.

Silencer Station's engines burned to life. The massive station fell slowly towards its enemies, the hungry maw of the molecular furnate active and prepared to consume.

Irek Ismaren felt entirely helpless. He had been installed in the throne to command Silencer-7, but it was increasingly clear that the AI at the heart of the station was not interested in being commanded. He could feel the AI, almost like it had a presence in the Force—and Irek might not be an expert like his mother, but he knew that only living creatures were supposed to have presences in the Force. His questions went unanswered, buried under the litany of status updates as Silencer Station prepared to engage its enemies.

RANGE THIRTY KILOMETERS. CUTTING ACCELERATION TO ZERO. TARGET PRIORITY ESTABLISHED. ENGAGING PRIMARY TARGETS WITH ANTI-SHIP COUNTERMEASURES.

There was the feeling of sudden pressure released. Multiple corvette-sized shapes launched from large docking ports on the sides of Silencer Station, spinning on their massive banks of engines and racing towards the enemy formation of ships.

PREPARING ADDITIONAL ANTI-SHIP COUNTERMEASURES.

Turbolaser fire splashed against Silencer Station's shields. Irek felt it like rain falling on his skin—enough pressure to be noticed, not enough to be dangerous. It splashed over the Station harmlessly, unable to breach its massive overlapping shields, not even threatening the station's multilayered armor. Like gnats TIE droids poured out of Silencer Station's main hangar, swarming, and they were met by fighters that Silencer-7's AI recognized and some that it did not.

EVALUATING ENEMY STARSHIP DESIGNS. CONCLUSION: COMBINATION OF CHISS AND NEO-IMPERIAL DESIGN ELEMENTS. ADJUSTING ESTIMATED BATTLE OUTCOME. PROBABILITY OF COMBAT VICTORY NOW ESTIMATED AT NINETY-SIX PERCENT.

As Silencer Station's weapons swarmed over the enemy formation, so too did the AI's system processes swarm over Irek's mind. He tried to keep up, but there was too much.

… ADJUST TURBOLASER BATTERY SEVEN TO INCREASE SHIELD NEGATION PROBABILITY. SHIELD GENERATOR FIFTY-SEVEN HAS BEEN REDUCED TO EIGHTY-FIVE PERCENT CAPACITY, COMPENSATE BY SHIFTING POWER TO GENERATORS FIFTY-SIX AND FIFTY-EIGHT. PREPARING ADDITIONAL ANTI-SHIP COUNTERMEASURES. ENEMY STAR DESTROYER 'UNREMITTING' DAMAGED, REDUCE TARGETING PRIORITY…

Irek Ismaren was lost in a sea of the AI's thoughts. They washed over him, making it hard to concentrate or think, much less issue commands. Occasionally he felt his lips moving, but he had no idea what he was saying or to whom.

He remembered something Nichos had said, something that had proven to be good advice. "Empty your mind." His mind was too full, too full of thoughts that weren't his, too full of Silencer-7. Irek stopped listening, stopped paying attention, trying to find himself as the waves of thought threatened to topple him under. He focused on emptiness, on the Force itself, on listening not to his own desires or Silencer-7, but just to the power that was there ever at his fingertips, at the edges of his thought.

There he felt something else.

A million minds. Stormtroopers and aliens, politicians and civilians. All the people of Poln Major were out there, fleeing into the void. As scared as he was, they were just as scared and just as lost.

All his life, his mother had told him that they were the only people that mattered. That they were special, destined for greatness. That the Empire was owed to them and theirs to take, and that wherever it cost, whatever it took, was irrelevant. That their rule was demanded by the Force itself.

But he didn't feel special.

It was all he could do not to drown.

Chapter Text

Teren Rogriss' flagship was at the center of a formation of Star Destroyers and their escorts, clustered in a hemispheric formation, and the view through Agonizer's forward bridge windows was lit chaotically by turbolaser fire and explosions. His ships formed a curving fan, as though they had once been part of a sphere sundered from its whole; as one they pointed towards the distant World Devastator. The space between his fleet and their enemy glowed and crackled with a slashes of green with bursts of blue; added flares of red and orange detonations punctured the starry dark.

Some of those flares were small, evidence of the ongoing struggle between Rogriss' fighters and the enemy TIE droids. The droids were more capable than they had been at the last battle of Poln Major and they came in greater numbers. TIEs of all varieties—fighters, interceptors, Defenders, and the UREF's Clawcraft—struggled to deal with the swarm.

Rogriss had only cursory attention to devote to the starfighter battle. Fel was in charge of his fighters, and besides the real fight was being waged by the ships with the big guns. Silencer Station was absorbing far more fire than it was delivering, its shields glowing under the strain of absorbing everything Teren Rogriss' formation had to give it.

But so far it was absorbing it all.

Beside him, Captain Tigan's expression was flat, carrying a hint of dire seriousness that he was usually better at hiding. "Gunnery and ComScan haven't reported any shield breaches yet. Not even fluctuations."

Rogriss merely nodded. Panic was not an emotion he was easily prone to and as the senior officer of Poln Major's defense fleet it was not one he could afford. "Concentrate fire further," he ordered. "Target single locations and see if we can force a breach."

"Another wave of corvette missiles detected and inbound on a constant bearing, decreasing range, sector Besh Sixteen!"

Signals that bespoke a handful of lean, triangular shapes detached from the sides of the distant World Devastator, emerging out of enormous construction bays. Each one looked like a Raider-class corvette, with a swollen nose packed with explosives and a cluster of redlined engines to hurl it into ships packed with living beings. Their engines lit and hurled them out from the Devastator towards Rogriss' formation.

"Flak ion fire, now!" ordered Tigan furiously, striding to stand in the middle of Agonizer's bridge, staring out at their still-distant enemy.

They had already nearly lost the Star Destroyer Unremitting to missiles just like those. One of them had breached everything the fleet had to defend against it and struck the big Imperial II just behind its forward nose section. Unremitting remained in action, the guns it had left still firing defiantly, but most of its forward weapons were gone and it surely could not sustain a second strike.

Rogriss spoke, calmly and with deliberation. "Enforcers, advance and intercept the shipkillers. Do not stray into our Destroyer firing arcs." It would be better for an Enforcer to take the hit than it would be to lose another Star Destroyer—they needed the bigger ships' guns if they had any chance to hurt Silencer Station.

TIEs exploded between Agonizer and her sister Star Destroyers as they darted and weaved over durasteel hills in their deadly conflict. One of the ships that was part of Asori's squadron, the Lively-class Discipline, hugged close to Agonizer, its anti-fighter guns spitting lethal bursts of blue fire that knocked down multiple TIE droids as they made attack runs.

Rogriss' attention was locked on his sensor and gunnery readouts. ENEMY SHIELD CAPACITY UNDIMINISHED. NO BREACHES REPORTED.

How could they kill something they couldn't even hurt?

"All Star Destroyers, adjust fire!" Rogriss called. "All gunners concentrate on this point!" He tapped on his screen, picking a location at random from the areas his ships had already struck. "Repeat, concentrate all fire!"

And if this doesn't work, then our next option is close to point blank range, Rogriss thought. He looked up at the image of the World Devastator, slowly growing larger, and its enormous fiery maw. Right into the jaws of the beast. "TIE bomber squadrons, prepare for your attack runs."

* * *

Engines straining, the Enforcer-class cruiser Staltavin surged forward above Baron Fel's head. The corvette-sized missile that had been bearing down on the Star Destroyer Admonitor slammed into the center of the cruiser instead, ripping its guts out before detonating.

Fel's canopy briefly turned completely black, shielding him from the glare of the fireball that followed. When it was no longer opaque Staltavin was gone, with only a few escape pods marking its passing.

Fel twisted his Defender in a tight arc, spitting laser fire at the TIE droids attempting to mount their own attacks on Admonitor. His ions flickered over their engines; he followed the disabling bursts with green laser fire that erased the enemy droids from space as thoroughly as Staltavin had been erased.

"Status report," he ordered.

"Three is gone," Four said, his Chandrilan accent clipped. "Enemy just launched another hundred clankers at us."

And not just TIE droids. Another wave of the corvette-sized shipkiller missiles were streaking away from their foe also, once again targeting Admiral Rogriss' larger capital ships—and this time, Staltavin was not present to make an intercept. A furious fusillade of ion cannon fire streaks out towards them, combined with tractor locks to try to hold the incoming missiles at bay.

"Form up with us then, Four. Status on the planetary evac?" Fel asked.

"In progress," Four said, tightness underlined by rigid control. "More scooters just docked with Pellaeon; the NR smuggies are clearing atmosphere. I don't know how many people are left groundside."

Too many. We don't have nearly enough ships to get everyone off a planet, even one as small as Poln Major.

Fel's HUD blinked at him. Another Enforcer-class cruiser was gone and the Star Destroyer Unremitting was no longer combat-capable. The UREF's strength was already starting to wane… and so far, they had yet to even hurt the enemy.

"This is Admiral Rogriss," said Rogriss' voice over the comm. "We are going to close the range. Shift all power to your turbolasers and continue to concentrate fire as we close. TIE bombers, launch now. We are clearing paths for you to make attack runs; salvo all your torpedoes and bombs. We must breach the enemy's shields."

The remaining Star Destroyers of the UREF tightened their formation and surged forward, maximizing their acceleration to close the distance as quickly as possible. They sacrificed their defenses to do so, shifting power to engines and weapons. As the distance closed, their weapons struck with greater punch, pounding the enemy's shields, making them glow in response.

Glow and flare with impact, but not break.

* * *

Teren Rogriss stood with Captain Tigan at Agonizer's front bridge window. They were close enough now that they could see the bursts of turbolaser fire battering the World Devastator. Concentrated lines of green and blue struck with metronomic weight, battering potential vulnerabilities, trying to stress the enemy's defenses past their breaking point.

TIE bombers darted between those streaks of coherent green and blue, curving towards the enemy. The enemy's TIE droids swarmed after them, and a vicious dogfight ensued as the fighters under Baron Fel's command tried to protect the bombers long enough for them to make their runs. Some of the bombers vanished as single-minded, suicidal TIE droids willingly sacrificed themselves to make kills, but Fel's people got most of them through.

Space rippled blue and orange as their proton torpedoes and cluster bombs launched from the bombers. The Defenders added some concussion missiles for good measure, despite their weaker yields.

"Breach!"

The shout from Agonizer's tactical station was a banshee cry of triumph. The torpedoes had breached the Devastator's outer layer of shields, and Rogriss' ships took advantage of the sudden vulnerability even before he could order them to. The coherent beams of fire blasting from the UREF formation sought out the breach, punching into it to drill into armor below.

* * *

Irek Ismaren flinched. A burst of pain erupted on his arm, like someone had touched him with a hot poker. "Ow!"

SHIELD GENERATOR TWENTY-ONE OVERLOADED. ATTEMPTING TO COMPENSATE. SHIFTING MANUFACTURING RESERVES TO REINFORCE ARMOR IN SECTION TWENTY-ONE. PREPARING ADDITIONAL ANTI-SHIP COUNTERMEASURES.

* * *

Rogriss' formation had already lost seven Enforcer-class cruisers and the Star Destroyer Unremitting, and their mad charge to point blank range had left them vulnerable.

A new wave of anti-ship missiles erupted away from the World Devastator. They could not gain as much speed as they had when Rogriss' ships had been more distant, but they also did not need to travel as far and there was less opportunity for those missiles to be shot down before impact.

"Incoming!"

Rogriss turned his head, his eyes widening as he saw one of those missiles hurtling towards his bridge.

"Reinforce bridge shields!" he heard Tigan yell, dimly in the back of his mind.

Images of Terek and Asori flashed before him as he watched the missile close. They were good kids, they'd always been good kids, obedient and even-tempered and loyal, and he loved them and hadn't spent nearly enough time with them—

The Enforcer-class cruiser Davrikin cut in front of the bridge viewport, coming so close to Agonizer that they nearly collided. It hovered there, racing through Rogriss' vision, entirely filling the bridge window, and then it exploded. It was torn apart from the inside out, the explosion coming squarely in the middle of the cruiser center-of-mass. Debris swept over Agonizer, flung at ridiculous velocities, but the smaller fragments were absorbed by the flaghip's shields.

"Warrior and Wrath are hit!"

Davrikin had saved Agonizer, but two of her sisters had not been so lucky. On the plot Warrior blinked yellow with serious but not crippling damage. Even as the ship's captain struggled successfully to maintain formation its forward firepower dropped to a trickle of what it had previously been producing. Wrath was gone; an enormous gaping hole in its aft sections was all the evidence of the corvette-sized missile that had torn the heart out of the vessel, leaving it drifting.

He'd lost three of his Star Destroyers. His TIE bombers had been savaged, their munitions already expended. And the wound they had inflicted… as Rogriss watched, the hole in the World Devastator's shields sealed itself up, as if it had never been there at all.

* * *

SHIELD GENERATOR TWENTY-ONE REPAIRED. REPAIRS TO ARMOR UNDERWAY. PREPARING ADDITIONAL ANTI-SHIP COUNTERMEASURES.

The pain on Irek's arm had faded some, but it had drawn him out of a dazed, suffocating stupor. He could feel Silencer-7 working, responding, countering the enemy fleet's efforts. Information poured through the command throne into Irek and he was getting better at managing it and interpreting it. The battle was no longer a swarm of information, too much for him to sort through, but a manageable tide that he could pick and choose from, concentrating on things he cared about.

"What are all those ships around the planet?" he asked.

EVACUATION VEHICLES. TRAITORS FLEEING IMPERIAL JUSTICE.

There was a pause. In his heart Irek felt a swell of emotion; his only-recently developed empathic sense overpowered by a sudden sense of determined malice. A desire to inflict harm on those Silencer-7 had decided were deserving of it.

THE PUNISHMENT OF TRAITORS IS A PRIORITY OBJECTIVE. THIS IS THE WILL.

* * *

The TIE droids fighting Fel abruptly broke off. They spun away, flying away from the TIE bombers they had previously been targeting. The bombers, suddenly free, immediately lined up a new strike against the World Devastator, but with their numbers so diminished it was unlikely they would be able to breach its shields a second time.

"Where are they going?" asked Phennir, somewhat confused.

Baron Soontir Fel had never fought Silencer Station, nor had he ever fought anything like the AI that governed its actions, which meant he had no way to guess. He brought up his HUD, tracking the enemy TIEs…

He inhaled sharply, his eyes going wide. "They're going after the refugee ships!" he said in astonishment. There was no military need to do that—and doing it compromised the enemy's battle plans! It was sheer, pointless spite!

"Gilad, you have incoming." Teren Rogriss' voice was harsh and strained almost to the breaking point. "There's no more time to get another round of evacuees, get out of the gravity well and get out of here!"

"Status change!"

As Fel's gut churned in dismay, his HUD obediently reported more than a dozen new icons arriving nearby. As he watched, a dozen became far more, as each one of the arriving ships disgorged squadrons of starfighters that vectored towards the fray.

X-wings and A-wings and B-wings and many E-wings, each one automatically tagged in a hostile red by his targeting computer.

A new transmission came, piped into his helmet with a staticky crackle. "This is Commodore Atril Tabanne, New Republic Defense Forces," a female voice cut through the comm static with reassuring glass-smooth tones, nearly Imperial in their precision. "I'm here with Captain Rogriss for reconnaissance and diplomacy. Tell us what we should look at and we'll go shake a few hands."

Fel couldn't help it. He smiled.

That would be one of Wedge's subordinates.

* * *

Asori Rogriss stood in front of the holo-display in Rendili Vigil's bridge, staring at a massacre in the making.

Her father's ships were clustered in a last-ditch, mutually protective formation, trying to use their tractor beams to repel incoming corvette-sized missiles long enough for their turbolasers to destroy them. Closer to the planet, Pellaeon's three Star Destroyers were laboring to collect as many refugees from Poln Major as they could. Surrounded by transports burning from space to surface to ship and back as quickly as possible, the entire formation menaced by a cloud of countless TIE droids.

The voice over the comm belonged to Gilad Pellaeon. "Commodore Tabanne, the best use of your—"

His voice cut off. There was a smear of light on the holo-display and another one of her father's Star Destroyers vanished. As a steel fist gripped her heart she scanned the combat plot and was relieved—so, so relieved—to see that Agonizer remained, fighting on.

Pellaeon's words were interrupted by punctures of static. ". . . will hold them off . . . evacuation should be . . . combat data to the New Republic to prove that we all have to fight . . . use it to find a weakness . . ."

* * *

"—get all our combat data to the New Republic to prove that we all have to fight this thing! Surely someone will be able to use it to find a weakness in its defenses!" Even as he spoke, Gilad Pellaeon stared at his own combat plot, watching Teren Rogriss' formation vanish before his eyes, terrified that there may be no weakness to find.

He'd seen disasters before. He'd been at Endor and Carida, after all. The New Order's catastrophe here at Poln Major, not that long ago, had been a military debacle on a scale the galaxy had rarely seen. But this was going to be just as terrible a catastrophe—and Pellaeon was going to be on the losing side.

"Grand Moff Ferrouz," he grated out, the words harsh in his throat. He kept them quiet, because what he needed to say was best not overheard by his crew. "We need to withdraw while we can to preserve our strength. We cannot defeat that thing."

"What about the New Republic ships, can they—"

Pellaeon shook his head fiercely. "They aren't capital ships. They're dangerous for their size but don't have anywhere near the firepower we're going to need to breach the World Devastator's shields."

"That wasn't what I was asking." Ferrouz's eyes flashed with anger. "I am aware we cannot defeat the enemy we face. But we still have civilians on the surface of Poln Major who require evacuation. Can the New Republic's ships make landings?"

Pellaeon stared at him. "We don't have the time!"

Ferrouz ignored him, grappling with his own comm unit. "Commodore Tabanne, we still have civilians who require evacuation. Can you assist?"

* * *

Asori almost jumped into the air in surprise when Atril started talking from beside her, with a strong, determined command voice. "This is the Commodore. Colonel Klivian, take our starfighters to defend Chimaera, Wild Karrde and the other ships performing the planetary evac. Mareschals, we're not really meant to land but we can do it. Moff Ferrouz, you should know that my ships do not have much in the way of passenger space and if we're crammed to the bulkheads we won't be combat effective."

"Understood Commodore. How many people can your ships—"

"As many as we can," Atril said, "Now mark our landing zones!"

There were further words exchanged, but almost none of it was audible. That might have been because of New Order jamming, but just as likely it was the blood pounding in Asori's ears. The World Devastator was bearing down on the UREF force opposing it now, and Agonizer was at the center of that tight formation.

* * *

"All engines, reverse thrust!" Tigan ordered, and Agonizer's thrusters flared. The entire ship seemed to vibrate under Rogriss' feet as she strained, pulling backwards. Green turbolaser fire continued to pour out of his ship's guns, blasting away at the World Devastator, but the enemy's shields were still too powerful and the blasts; guns able to tear continents apart and boil oceans did not breach them a second time.

He blinked in sudden consternation. The enemy TIEs were still closing, but no one had called out an incoming missile in… he wasn't sure how long it had been. "How long has it been since the last shipkiller salvo?" he asked.

"Several minutes. Look, sir," Tigan said. He pointed out through Agonizer's bridge window. The World Devastator was coming forward towards them—and towards Poln Major behind them—its shields still glowing under the weight of the Empire's turbolasers. "It's closing."

Behind the glow of the World Devastator's shields was another glow—the glow of the World Devastator's molecular furnace. Rogriss could almost see teeth. "Increase reverse thrust to maximum," he ordered as calmly as he could.

* * *

RESERVE MATERIALS NEARING EXHAUSTION.

The sensory inputs from the command throne poured over the link between Irek and Silencer-7. Knowledge of Silencer Station's capabilities appeared in his consciousness and Irek suddenly knew that the main weapon the station had used against the enemy formation had been expended. The station's massive molecular furnace had been constructing new ordinance out of its stocks of raw materials, but now there was none left.

ALL RESERVES ALLOCATED. SYSTEM ANALYSIS IN PROGRESS. IDENTIFYING POTENTIAL SOURCES OF NEW RAW MATERIALS.

Silencer Station's sensors lashed out at the system. Planets and moons were ranked in a hierarchy of value, with those that offered the most raw materials for new construction at the top. They were then reordered on the basis of proximity and finally on the basis of a third criteria that it took Irek some time to comprehend.

In another sentient being, Irek would have called it 'taste'. For Silencer-7, it felt more like malicious satisfaction.

TARGET IDENTIFIED. PREPARING FOR RESOURCE COLLECTION.

In a dark, angry red, Silencer-7's acquisition subroutines illuminated the Star Destroyer Agonizer as its priority target.

* * *

Dorset Konnair led more than a hundred New Republic snubfighters into battle. Through either side of her cockpit she could see allied fighters: Knave Leader and his E-wings were redlining their engines to keep up, but her A-wings still outpaced them. Farther behind, Colonel Klivian and the Rogues were at the center of their formation. Engines glowed in the void and ahead of them the first bursts of green laser fire were visible as the TIE droids reached Admiral Pellaeon's formation.

The four 'friendly' Imperial-class Star Destroyers were spread farther apart than they normally would be, because that made it easier for them to rapidly capture and release the freighters ferrying refugees up from Poln Major's surface. Those transports, by contrast, clustered as closely together as possible once they escaped the Star Destroyers' massive hangars, their guns offering one another protection.

She flicked her comm to wide-band as they closed within ten klicks of the Imperial formation, but Colonel Klivian's voice broke through first, in the clear, in a precise diction she'd never heard him use before. "UREF forces, this is Rogue Leader. The New Republic starfighters coming up on you are friendly, repeat friendly. Tag us blue or we'll have a problem."

He didn't get a reply, but she hadn't really been expecting him to. After all, her HUD made it clear that all the Imperials were busy.

TIE droids swarmed over the Imperial ships, taking advantage of impressive speed and even more impressive maneuverability. Without any concern for the health of a sentient pilot, they could pull turns that even with a full inertial compensator would have turned Dorset into gravity-pressed goo as they skimmed over the ships, firing ruthlessly. They targeted the freighters first, which suggested that their priorities were more about inflicting harm than they were about getting back out of this engagement alive.

TIE droids, the Empire had demonstrated at Coruscant, were expendable.

Well. She was a New Republic pilot flying one of the fastest, meanest ships ever devised and the ships under threat were packed to the gills with civilians. That meant she was expendable too. Dorset smiled and flicked her communicator to the Polearm Squadron channel. "Polearm Squadron, Polearm Leader. One Fight, we're going to protect the Wild Karrde. Two Flight, Three Flight take targets of opportunity. All fighters, shoot, scoot, and maintain your energy or you'll get swarmed. In and out and we let the Slowbies pick up after us."

There was an echo of acknowledging comm clicks, and then nothing. Her people knew their jobs. When the range hit seven klicks she started hunting for targets, her HUD occasionally flickering yellow with semi-locks on her concussion missile launchers, but the TIE droids were too maneuverable to confirm a lock, rolling between the cluttered freighters.

Her twelve A-wings were the first into the fray. They rocketed ahead at full throttle, tearing through the center of the freighter formation and bursting out the other side, leaving explosions in their wake. Dorset wasn't sure if they had killed anything, but in her HUD she could see the Knaves and Rogues and the rest of their fighters swoop in after them, laser cannons firing, reaping kill after kill after kill. X-wings and E-wings chopped their throttles, their veteran pilots dancing between freighters, pursuing and pursued by TIE droids; their shields absorbed green energy and their lasers sent red blasts back. Fiery explosions punctured the space between the freighters; red and green blips vanished from her HUD.

Green blasts zipped over her shoulder so Dorset flared her throttle and swung her A-wing around a SoroSuub medium runner, taking her back in the direction she had come. Acceleration mashed her back into her seat as she came back into the melee. This time her missile lock was good, the solid hum of her launcher confident, and a fierce orange flare roared out of her fighter towards its target. The TIE droid, clearly aware it was incoming, tried to spin out of the way. A more experienced pilot—or a better programmed one—probably could have used all the freighters for cover, but the TIE droid's evasive maneuvers were more rudimentary and her missile tore through it. Ahead of her, an E-wing skimmed just over the shield perimeter of a small bulk freighter, its trio of powerful laser cannons obliterating another TIE droid as it lined up for an attack run.

"Starfighters, stay on the freighters," said the voice of Rendili Vigil's Bothan communications officer. "The carriers and Tempered Mettle are making a run for the surface for more refugees. Keep those TIEs off us while we do."

Dorset glanced at her HUD, then inverted her fighter. Below them were the twelve larger, almost aquatic shapes of Mirage Formation's Mareschals. The Rendili-built ships were an odd mix of Rendili and Mon Calamari design sensibilities, blocky and curving, in a way that looked like half art piece and half picket ship. TIE droids moved to intercept them, some of them vanishing as they encountered precisely-aimed bursts of red lasers. Ahead of the formation was the oval-shaped Tempered Mettle, moving with a speed and verve that belied its rotund design, Imperial-green lasers firing with uncanny precision—additional evidence, Dorset thought, that the Jedi deserved every bit of their reputation in the Fleet.

Though, she didn't need any more evidence. She had, after all, seen Skywalker flying with the Rogues at Linuri.

Her HUD flashed with a situation update. She was much too far away from the main fight to see what was going on; Silencer Station and Admiral Rogriss' ships were grappling with one another further away from the planet. But she didn't need to be close enough to see the slugging match to know how it was going as yet another of Rogriss' ships vanished off her tactical plot.

* * *

Tempered Mettle boasted a pair of hidden laser turrets for mid-range combat, not unlike those mounted on the Millennium Falcon. Unlike the Falcon's, however, their mountings were too small for proper gunnery stations, so they were operated instead from Mettle's bridge. Luke and Leia each took a station, one on either side of the bridge, targeted the incoming TIE droids, and opened up in a dazzling array of hard light.

It was a strange experience. Luke had grown accustomed to feeling the minds of enemy pilots during battle. Each one gleamed in the Force, the glow indicative of sentience and emotion. It made finding an enemy easier for Luke, because they did not know how—or even that they needed to—shourd themselves from a Jedi's empathic sense. Of course, it made killing an enemy far more difficult, because Luke could feel every pilot he killed, sense the moment their light went out.

The TIE droids, by contrast, had no such light. They were machines, dark to the Force, as black in his empathic sense as the emptiness of space itself. That made them harder to find, but it also meant that each one he killed did not further burden his soul.

He fired again, Tempered Mettle's starboard turret spitting out a burst of green fire at the TIE droid attempting to strafe the much larger Rendili Vigil, also racing towards Poln Major on a hasty landing trajectory. A puff of flame and sparks later and the hostile contact vanished from his screen.

He could feel Mara in the pilot's seat at the front of the bridge. She was immersed in the Force, linked to both him and Leia. Emotions and intentions flowed easily between Luke and Mara and Tempered Mettle had a tendency to roll in just the right direction, shift its courses minutely to improve his firing prospects, or suddenly go still and steady so he could line up a shot, without him even needing to. He could also feel Leia, on the opposite side of the bridge at the starboard turret station, and her intensity and focus on both the enemies they fought and the mission that had brought them all here.

Leia's mind was busy, balancing her awareness of threats and the need to help the people of Poln Major with the bigger picture. The threat of the massive military machine—which, Luke realized with some consternation, was not as dead to the Force as the TIE droids it had rallied to fight them—was not just to this one provincial world, but to the entire New Republic. And her presence here, the sudden ad-hoc alliance between the Unknown Regions Expeditionary Force and the New Republic task force sent on "reconnaissance", had implications just as great for ending the long galactic war, which had been one of Leia's great goals ever since the New Republic was founded.

Luke knew his sister was brilliant, but the depth and constancy of her thought—and her utter inability to turn off the part of her brain ever-focused on the bigger picture—still sometimes startled him. When Mara was in a fight she shrank the universe down to a single point, focusing unerringly on the problem in front of her and how she was going to deal with it. Leia did not, could not, ever do that.

And, of course, Luke could feel that Leia and Mara were just as aware of one another as he was aware of each of them. The depths of his bond to both women, the intensity of the connection, served as a conduit through which each could sense the other. Just as Tempered Mettle shifted and danced to help Luke, so too did it shift and dance to help Leia.

That part of the connection was much harder on Mara than it was on Leia. Leia was open and comfortable, with a good politician's instinct to share and reveal in order to make their constituents comfortable and trusting. Mara was the opposite, typically choosing to reveal herself to Luke and only to Luke. But even though Luke could feel her consternation he could also feel her resignation and acceptance. Leia had always been able to see more than Mara was comfortable with, after all. Deeper in the ship, in the cargo bay, were Iella, the Devaronian Kapp Dendo, and his commando team, veteran professionalism overlaying pre-deployment jitters with rote-learned rigor.

Artoo whistled. The computer translated for all of them. LANDING SITE ASSIGNED.

Mara took them hard into the atmosphere, heat burning around her ship's shields. All around them, fire clawed at the Mareschals as they likewise made almost-too-quick atmospheric entry, each aiming for a landing location of their own. Like meteors they streaked towards the ground. Above them, New Republic starfighters and TIE droids dueled for control for the sky above.

Chapter Text

Mara took them into the atmosphere at a steeper angle than she usually would have, but she knew her ship's shields could take it. Through Tempered Mettle's windows she could see balls of flame in the sky in the distance on either side of her and knew from sight and sensors that each one was one of the New Republic's Mareschals coming in with her, no doubt pushing their safety specs to the limit. Each ship of their formation had been given a distinct landing zone by the Poln Major Central Command and they were heading for those landing locations with as much speed as possible.

She couldn't see space behind them. Their plot reported the battle between Admiral Rogriss' formation and the World Devastator was still raging, and while the rate of destruction had slowed, Rogriss' ships were still disappearing like embers in a particularly cold night.

Luke was beside her, managing their descent as well as he could. Leia sat behind them both; Mara couldn't see her, but she could feel Leia through the Force. The Councilor was a bundle of nerves, fear, and anger under tight control, but all of them were determined to get to ground. They were here to help as many people as they could, and they would… because there was no doubt left, now, how this battle would end. The World Devastator had proved too tough for an entire Imperial fleet—a good one too, Imperials Mara would have held up as the best of the Empire while she was Emperor's Hand, as examples for the rest of the Empire to emulate—and soon it would be coming for the planet.

E-wings and TIEs continued to duel above Tempered Mettle as Mara's ship drove downwards, but the TIEs did not try to follow them. Without shields it was unlikely they would survive atmospheric entry at that speed, and even if they did the subsequent loss of maneuverability would have made them exceptionally easy targets.

Luke still occasionally took snap-shots at them with their guns, but it had been some time since he had hit anything. She could feel something in him, a fatigue that was unusual in all their adventures. There was responsibility—he was Luke Skywalker, there was always responsibility—but here it was married to a bone-deep exhaustion that Mara understood.

It never ended.

The killer of the First Death Star, who had been instrumental in destroying the second one and killing Palpatine was face to face with yet another superweapon commanded by yet more Dark Jedi, while his sister was wrestling with terror-tinged memories of watching Alderaan's destruction.

Mara felt something else too through their bond, the trickling guilt that somehow this was their fault. The idea that this was all their fault for relaxing for a moment, for wanting some time with their family. She knew, intellectually, that that was a ridiculous thing to believe. Their decision to visit Leia and Han to tell them about her pregnancy had not been an irresponsible one.

Even though they had known there was another Emperor's Hand out there, they'd had no reason to believe that Roganda Ismaren could do what she had done at Coruscant—breach the planet's defenses, breach the Jedi Consulate, threaten the Skyhook and steal the Nar Shaddaa artifact, managing to get through not just the Jedi who had been there but the entire Coruscant defense fleet. But in their hearts they both knew that if they had been at the Consulate they would have stopped Roganda. Their absence, their moment of inattention, had resulted in this… this catastrophe.

They had to win. Even if they didn't have to before, they had something… someone… new to fight for now. Someone that bound them together and defined the future in new and unexpected ways.

I'm here, she sent him, through their bond, I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere.

"The enemy is locked on Agonizer," reported Leia grimly. "But it has slowed its approach on the planet. Rogriss is buying us time."

Mara just nodded. Below them the planetary surface was growing at an alarming pace, so she cut the main engines and engaged the repulsorlifts. Her entire ship rumbled from the strain, bending but not breaking. The large open field—what looked like some kind of athletic field—that had been marked as their emergency landing spot was visible now. In the distance she could see the gleaming, familiar white stone of the Governor's Palace, high on the hill overlooking the city, reflecting light like a beacon.

"Slips, check landing trajectory. Luke, help me guide us in."

As they approached the ground, Mara saw the mass of people clustered around nearby buildings—it was obviously a school, one of typically blocky Imperial design that Mara had seen on a hundred different worlds—and there were hundreds of people waiting. Through the Force, Mara and the other Jedi could feel their fear—and their hope—matched by thousands of others in Whitestone City and beyond.

They hit the ground, landing gear carving deep indents into well-manicured grass, marked with white lines for sporting days.

"Dropping the ramp," Mara said as she slapped the controls.

Luke was already out of his seat, running down in that direction with Leia, Iella, and the medics to help get everyone they could fit aboard. Mara was doing weight calculations, considering how many tons she could squeeze into Tempered Mettle without making departure impossible.

* * *

Rendili Vigil was not really meant for landing maneuvers. She could land—in theory—but she had been built in the void and was meant primarily for space combat. Her overall shape made landing awkward at best, and while the ship had a fair amount of available space for refugees (especially since their hangars were all empty, with Rendili Vigil's squadron of starfighters busy fighting TIE droids), so they could help with an evacuation, but she was far from an ideal evacuation craft.

["Temperature rising!"] The Togorian sensor officer reported in his harsh feline language. ["At extreme levels!"]

Commander Atril Tabanne stood from her command chair and glanced over at the Togorian before answering, taking the temperature of her own crew under stress.

"Maintain course and descent angle. I know her specs. I helped write those specs. She can take it." Rendili Vigil rattled more than she had in any of Atril's more difficult battles. "Hold together, honey," she muttered to her ship. "You heard me. You can take it."

Beside her, Asori Rogriss wore a stunned expression. The shorter, slighter woman looked entirely too pale. Tension clung to the corners of her mouth and eyes, fear that even Asori's Imperial training was unable to hide. Fear, Atril knew, that was due to their situation and what was happening to Poln Major— and knowledge that Agonizer was fighting a desperate, losing battle behind them.

She suspected that if Asori had been aboard her own ship, with all the command responsibilities that entailed, that she would not have looked so concerned and uncertain. That Asori would have seized command, pushed all her fears to the side, focused on her responsibilities and suppressed the trauma of the moment for after the battle. But here, aboard Atril's ship, she was just a passenger.

"Captain Rogriss," she said.

Asori's stunned gaze found Atril, focusing. "Commodore?"

"I require your assistance," she said, despite not needing the help. "I need an estimation of how many people we can supply with oxygen after evacuation, it doesn't matter if we can find space for them all if we all pass out on the way out."

"Of course," Asori said, and in that moment Atril could see the iron-command they had both been taught at the Imperial Academies assert itself, tension shifting from fear to purpose.

The flatscreens around the bridge gave them all a good view of their exterior. Grassy plains stretched beyond the edges of Whitestone City, with small suburbs in the distance. Airspeeders zoomed towards them, as if drawn by some irresistible force, rocketing at speeds no doubt higher than were safe.

"Brace for landing!" she ordered.

"Prepare for combat landing," her Bothan comms officer, Hiacun, intoned calmly into his mic. "Ten seconds. Nine. Eight…"

* * *

"Keep all guns on target!" Captain Tigan's voice was hoarse from the effort of shouting over the hammering of laser fire against Agonizer's shields. "More power to the engines!"

Agonizer's return fire would have been enough to burn through a planet's crust and liquify stone, but Rogriss saw no effect on the closing World Devastator. It was like their foe was toying with them, now. It had destroyed a Golan platform with one more of those thrice-damned shipkillers it could fire, but only the one, reinforcing his belief that the damned thing had run out. In their absence, it was crawling towards Agonizer with its gaping, fiery maw and paw-like appendages seeming to reach hungrily towards his ship.

They had come close to the planet to get cover from the now-destroyed Golan platform. With it gone, there was little more he and his ships could do. "Status on the evacuation?" he asked.

"Your daughter is bound for an evacuation zone on the New Republic flagship," Tigan reported, voice a low, warm murmur. "Pellaeon's forces are engaged with the enemy TIE droids, but they don't seem to pose a serious threat to Baron Fel and the New Republic fighters. His ships are bound for the hyper limit unimpeded."

He thought, briefly, about the irony of the commander of the New Republic force that had arrived to aid them being Atril Tabanne, guided by his daughter. Tabanne had been his prisoner, not that long ago, when she'd been a mere Captain. He'd risked his life, his career, and his childrens' lives and careers to help her. He'd stood up for something. If he had not made that decision, where would they all be?

I'm sorry, heja, he thought, watching Rendli Vigil and the rest of Mirage Formation rush closer to their destinations on the sensor plot. But at least this time there's no doubt that your mother would be proud of us.

But he did not have time to ruminate over it. It was done and they were all here. And he would be staying here. The shuddering of his ship was not just from laser and ion fire, but from the lashing of tractor beams, pinning Agonizer in place. Even with all the added energy devoted to weapons and engines, his ship could only retreat with excruciating slowness… and the World Devastator was advancing faster.

Pellaeon would get away, at least, with as many refugees as they could carry. His own formation—which had begun with more than a dozen Star Destroyers and many additional escort craft—had been decimated, but he still had many (damaged) ships remaining. They clung to Agonizer's sides, fighting to protect her, fighting to buy more time for the evacuation. Time that was, in Rogriss' estimation, no longer worth buying. "Rogriss to fleet. All ships, scatter. Repeat, scatter and head for the hyper limit. Stay in pairs, use tractors to tow damaged ships out if you can. Pick up any survivors as you go if you can. Then get out of here and reinforce Admiral Pellaeon."

There were objections, of course, but not as many as Rogriss had feared. He and Tigan shared a look, one of perfect understanding.

"More power to the guns!" Tigan ordered. "Cut all power to the engines, devote all power to the guns!" Then Tigan took a deep breath. "I would order an evacuation, sir," he said in a quieter voice, one not meant to be overheard, "but with its tractors on us…"

"I know," Rogriss said without nodding. "Fight your ship, Captain Tigan."

"Sir," Tigan said, hand outstretched. "You were the best commanding officer I ever had. It has been my honor to serve under your command."

"Vendov," Rogriss said, struggling to control his voice. "The honor is mine." He took Tigan's hand and shook it firmly.

Then, for what Rogriss knew would be the last time, Tigan turned away. The captain walked Agonizer's bridge, shouting encouragement and orders. All around them, the remainder of Rogriss' fleet scattered in pairs, helping one another escape. The World Devastator seemed disinterested in pursuing them, its attention locked unerringly on Agonizer. That was good, Rogriss thought. It meant that more of his men would survive.

Most of the crew were doing their duty with an impressive stoic mein. But one young man, at one of the gunnery stations, could not quite stifle his sniffles. The battle was lost, perhaps, but that did not mean that Rogriss was at the end of his duties—or at the end of the good he could do. He climbed down the ladder into the crew pit.

The young man—he couldn't be older than twenty—looked up at Rogriss with sudden alarm. "Sir?"

Rogriss reached past him and flicked the station from manual to automatic. "What's your name, son?"

"Um, Charmingdon, sir. Zeff Charmingdon."

The young man's uniform said he was a Lieutenant, but Rogriss knew just from looking at him that he had never attended one of the Imperial academies. "First time in battle? Where are you from?"

Charmingdon glanced nervously at his console, clearly thinking that there was something better for him to do than make smalltalk with an Admiral. But Rogriss was an Admiral, and when an Admiral attempted to make smalltalk, a Lieutenant participated whether they wanted to or not. Even if they were all about to die.

"Dubrillion, sir."

Rogriss nodded. Dubrillion was a system he'd never even heard of. Somewhere on the Rim, no doubt. "I know you didn't choose to be here," he said. "But you're here now, and with your help I think the two of us can do some good. What do you say we find a weakness in that monstrosity's shields, something that our friends can use to kill it next time?"

The young man silently swallowed. "A-all right, sir," he agreed nervously.

"Good lad," Rogriss said, flicked the firing controls from automatic back to manual, and took the second seat at the station.

* * *

Mara had been to Poln Major once before and remembered that the world had a significant non-human population. Still, she was stunned that such a large percentage of the refugees here, at this very Imperial-designed, Imperial-built school, were nonhuman. They were not of any one uniform species—some were of species that Mara did not even recognize, or had not seen since the last time she'd been this close to the Unknown Regions. But as refugees, those differences seemed unimportant. The children helped one another up the ramp and Mara directed them hastily into places they could sit and brace when the time came for takeoff.

She realized only after she'd already found places for nearly three dozen refugees that the adults were, for the most part, not these children's parents, but their school teachers. Leia was in close conversation, going from group to group, reassuring and helping.

"Miss?" asked one of the human instructors, his voice hurried but not panicked. Mara looked up from the cluster of children she was securing in an open section of the hold, peering over the heads of the mass of terrified children, their fear and anxiety filling the air around her like a tangible mist. "Miss, Mikkel's not here!"

"Who are they and where are they?" Mara asked curtly, Leia at her side.

The human instructor shook his head worriedly. He was a youngish man about Mara's own age in a hideous striped suit about ten years too mature for him. "I don't know. It was hard to keep track of all of us. Some of the students were taken away by their parents, but I was sure Mikkel was with us."

The thick, tangible fear in the Force made its guidance harder to hear. She realized Luke was beside her once again only when he spoke. "I'll search the school," he promised. He seized Mara's hand and squeezed it quickly. "You get the ship ready for launch."

She nodded fiercely, squeezing his hand far harder in return. "You get back here when we are."

"Count on it," Luke said.

Leia was beside them, her eyes hurried but intent. "The other Jedi are managing well at the other landing zones, but we're running out of time. The Imperial fleet is starting to retreat."

"Go," Mara encouraged Luke. He released her hand, hugged Leia quickly, and ran down the ramp. Mara could hear the distant thunder of turbolaser fire, the sounds of battle in the sky above her. She took a moment to look up; in the sky above she saw the arrow-shape of Agonizer, firing a furious fusillade of turbolaser fire, unleashing the full majesty of its firepower at the immense, square-like, industrial form of the enemy 'World Devastator'. The Devastator loomed overhead, its maw-like belly pointed directly at Agonizer… and through Agonizer at the world below. "Get everyone secured," she ordered the teachers. "Get them all strapped in with whatever cargo webbing we have because when we take off, we're going as fast as we can!"

* * *

The mass of people at the base of the Whitestone City governor's palace climbed the large, ladder-like stairways that had descended from the bottoms of Atril Tabanne's ships. She'd brought no fewer than half of her Mareschals down here to collect the thousands of fleeing people. Climbing the ladders was difficult, especially for the elderly, so the young and the healthy went first. Some were loaded into her three shuttles and brought up manually, but she had only one shuttle per ship and they were not large—one of the downsides of cramming as much capability into a platform the size of Rendili Vigil was there was no wasted space.

On the ground, the Jedi had taken the lead in guiding people up. Atril didn't recognize them all, but their lightsabers were lit as beacons, guiding people to safe locations.

Beside her, on Rendili Vigil's bridge, Asori Rogriss' distraction had come to an end. "It looks like there are about three thousand in total. Do we have space for them all?"

Not really, Atril thought. But without their squadron of starfighters, maybe they had enough volume if they packed the ship, including all the corridors. It wouldn't be pretty, but it would work, maybe. "We'll make do," she said.

"What's going on up there?" Asori asked.

Atril pressed her lips together, trying to come up with an answer that wouldn't dishearten the Imperial officer. Her lack of response had the same effect, and Asori's face fell. The shorter woman looked down, her eyes closed, and she took a deep breath.

"The UREF fleet is scattering," Atril said, wishing she'd said that to begin with. "But Agonizer…"

On the combat plot, they could both see that the World Devastator had locked Agonizer with its tractor beams and was inexorably drawing the Star Destroyer into its maw. The distance was becoming quite short, and while Agonizer continued to fire everything it had, nothing seemed to have any effect.

"Of course," Asori said hoarsely.

"Commodore, we're monitoring a comms exchange between Agonizer and the World Devastator! It's coming in the clear."

"On speaker."

" . . . offering you the opportunity to surrender and spare your men," said a stiff Imperial voice.

"Another show trial to glue your feeble regime together for another hour," retorted a voice from Agonizer. Atril thought the voice too deep to be the elder Rogriss, but she couldn't be sure—the message was too garbled, with electronic static and jamming distorting all the voices.

A second voice cut in. "I can't accept your surrender, Halmere," and this voice was one that Atril recognized. She knew it well—she'd had dinner with the man once before, after all, and Teren Rogriss was not an easy man to forget. "We lack the facilities to take you all prisoner."

The channel was flooded with a screeching static which made Atril flinch. "Sorry ma'am," said her comms officer. "The Empire just increased their jamming. I don't think they want anyone to hear the rest."

Atril glanced at Asori beside her. Teren Rogriss' daughter sniffled and surreptitiously wiped a tear away. Their eyes met, briefly, and Atril offered her what she hoped was a respectful, acknowledging nod. The Imperial nodded back, perfectly measured, and straightened her back. folding her arms behind her, adopting that perfect Imperial posture that Atril had learned all too well. Asori deployed her training like a set of overlapping armor as she saw the corridors outside the bridge filled with people, people her father had just bought the time to save.

"[We're fully loaded!]" called her Togorian sensor officer.

"How fully?"

He shook his head, his fur standing on edge. "[Too full.]"

She cursed. "Seal all hatches!" demanded Atril. "Get us back in the air!"

"[There are still people outside—]"

"You heard me!" Atril exclaimed. "Now make it so." As the clanging of hatches resounded through the ship and its engines whined under a heavy load, her voice softened and she spoke again. "We're out of time. We can't save them and if we stay we won't save anyone."

* * *

The distance between Agonizer and the World Devastator was so narrow, now. As Teren Rogriss watched, the nose of his ship began to disintegrate. The forward prow just came apart under some invisible force, pieces drawn forward towards the World Devastator's furnace. The sharp-edged shape became blunter, and then more of his ship started to detach from its central core, the entire forward third losing cohesion. Like crumbs, they were swept forward into the burning maw and vanished. Agonizer's remaining guns continued to fire, pouring energy, but they had not broken their enemy's defenses, and they would not break it now.

To his credit, Charmingdon was focused on his task. He and Rogriss had—other than the brief interruption of Halmere's mocking call—worked together to find a weakness, any weakness, in those shields. They had not found one, but Charmingdon was entranced by the task, searching, testing different spots, looking for flickers or eddies or anything that might be a weakness that could be exploited.

"Look," Rogriss said, excited, pointing at some corner of the screen. "Look there!"

Charmingdon was pulled, confused, out of his trance. "Sir?" he said, not seeing anything.

Rogriss pointed again, more decisively. "Look! Do you see that? There's a flicker in their shields every time you hit that spot!"

"There is?" Charmingdon blinked, but he was just a young Lieutenant, one with little real training. Rogriss was an Admiral. Charmingdon had no right, no ability, to second-guess the Admiral's judgment. "There is?" he said again, more excitedly.

"Yes!" Rogriss exclaimed. "I'll get a message to the fleet, so they know, you give them hell, son!"

Charmingdon's smile was heartbreaking, a child who had just received the perfect lifeday present.

They hadn't found a weakness, of course. But better to let the boy die happy.

* * *

Mara was willing to do a lot of things, but she wasn't willing to leave Luke Skywalker behind. He'd been gone too long, trying to rescue the last straggler, and she wasn't going to leave him. She loved him far too much to leave him behind again… and she needed him, because she was not ready to be a mother alone. Their child needed at least one unambiguously good parent.

They were running out of time. She stared up into the sky, where the World Devastator now loomed, enormous, above Whitestone City. Beneath it was the much tinier Agonizer.

An Impstar Deuce shouldn't look so fragile.

As Mara watched the Star Destroyer simply… came apart. Fragmenting into bits starting at the prow, the Star Destroyer's mass was broken into smaller and smaller parts.

"Oh, my stars," gasped Leia beside her.

Agonizer's massive middle section fractured, long fissures extending through armor and compartments, until the bulky aft sections shattered into chunks. Its remains were swept slowly into the Devastator's maw, and Mara had the odd sense that she was watching the early stages of a beast enjoying a particularly flavorful meal.

When Mara looked down, she saw Luke sprinting up the ramp, carrying an unconscious alien child in his arms, a field dressing slapped across its head. "Go!" he shouted.

Leia slapped the ramp controls and Mara sprinted for the spiral stairs that went up from the cargo hold to the freighter's bridge, dodging around the throng of tiny people. "Get us off the ground, Slips!"

* * *

Dorset Konnair flared her engines to full, and her A-wing leapt forward out of the ongoing melee. She raced away from the densest part of the combat, putting distance—which meant safety—between herself and the numerous TIE Droids that remained. Her A-wing was all speed and maneuverability, but speed wasn't as helpful without also having space where she could exploit it. Her wingman stayed in tight, both their shields full aft to deflect the grazing fire that came from the enemy TIEs.

Behind them, the E-wings and X-wings designed for this kind of close confrontation had been joined by TIE Defenders and dozens of exotic, odd-looking fighters with a classic TIE ball cockpit clutched in a quartet of gracefully-curving wings instead of solar panels. Had the galaxy not been turned upside-down that would have meant a vicious confrontation between the New Republic and the TIEs, but instead the combination of powerful fighters were clearing the board of the New Order's droid starfighters.

Politics makes strange bedfellows, Dorset thought as she twirled her A-wing on its axis, pointing back towards the combat.

Her attention was drawn beyond it. The absolutely enormous enemy—World Devastator, Silencer Station, whatever—was consuming the remains of Agonizer, and hovering above what had been the most densely populated parts of Poln Major. Beneath them both, the New Republic's Mareschals were once again exiting the atmosphere—slower than they had descended—and trailing behind them was the streaking form of Tempered Mettle.

"Polearms, give us an escort" came the voice of Rendili Vigil's Bothan comms officer. "Rogues, Knaves, finish off the TIEs so they can't intercept us on the way out."

"Copy, Vigil," Dorset agreed, guiding her fighter in as ordered.

"All ships, this is Admiral Pellaeon," the crisp, Coruscanti-accented voice of the Imperial cut through Dorset's comms. "We're going to retreat and regroup. Plan Delta, repeat Delta."

What in all the nine hells does Plan Delta mean? Dorset wondered. She wasn't the only one wondering, either; even as they all retreated away from Poln Major so they could transition to hyperspace, the same question was being echoed across the New Republic formation.

* * *

"Captain?" Atril asked.

To Asori, Rendili Vigil's bridge was unnaturally quiet. She could hear the near-silent labor of the air scrubbers, the subtle motions of crew at their stations, the whirring of computers and droids. She did not know how many people had died among her father's fleet. Nor did she know how many people were yet to die, abandoned on the surface of Poln Major. The number had to be millions, devoured into the hungry maw of yet another Imperial superweapon.

All she could think was that she would never be able to give her papa his book back.

"Captain?"

She refused to let her reverie cause her to fail in her duty. "Plan Delta means we're retreating into the Unknown Regions," she reported. "The UREF has a number of basing facilities. We're going to perform a random hyperspace jump, make sure we're not followed, then retreat to our nearest colony world." Even as she spoke, Asori manipulated the holo-display. She took only a few seconds to identify the star that was their first destination. "Here. System Codename Bulwark."

"We'll go with our secondary communications protocol," Atril said to the Bothan at the communications station. "Comms, send the destination to the fleet, secondary transit protocol. Then let's get out of here."

He nodded, typing furiously into his console. "Message sent!"

* * *

"Wait!"

Dorset glanced through the canopy of her A-wing at the oval-shape of Tempered Mettle. The TIE Droids had, finally, been eliminated. The World Devastator was no longer producing more; it seemed more intent on consuming Agonizer than on pursuing them, with the TIEs gone. Agonizer had been mostly absorbed by the World Devastator's fiery maw, though there was a cloud of debris that still retained a semi-triangular shape.

"Who is this?" demanded Pellaeon's voice.

"This is Councilor Leia Organa Solo," the first voice came back. "Commodore Tabanne, can we deploy a rearguard to observe what our enemy does after we depart? I want recordings of everything, copy?"

"Councilor Organa Solo?" Pellaeon's voice was astonished. "You came in person?!"

Leia did not bother to respond. Atril's voice cut in instead. "Polearm Leader, what's your fuel status?"

Dorset checked her HUD. "Still green."

"Linger at the limit. Keep your hyperdrives hot. Do not engage the enemy, repeat do not engage the enemy. Your mission is observation only, clear?"

Our entire mission to Poln Major was supposed to be observation only, Atril, Dorset thought wryly. Not that she objected, of course. "Copy, Commodore," she said. "A-wing recon. How long do we stay?"

"Until you think you've seen enough," said Leia.

"Copy. Polearms stick with me. We'll see the rest of you on the other side." Above and in front of her, there was the psuedomotion that came before a hyperspace jump, and then the Imperial and New Republic vessels all vanished, leaving just Dorset and her Polearms behind.

She schooled her anxiety, searching the system for the right spot to hide and watch.

SYSTEMS ALERT: DAMAGE SUSTAINED TO MOLECULAR FURNACE. REPAIRS UNDERWAY.

RECLAMATION PROCESS UNDERWAY. RECLAMATION CRAFT BEGINNING RESOURCE COLLECTION. ADDENDUM: PLANET DESIGNATED 'POLN MAJOR' ADDED TO RESOURCE TARGET LIST. ESTIMATING RESOURCES AVAILABLE WITH EXPEDITED COLLECTION. ADDENDUM: BEGIN SECOND ROUND OF EXPANSION. CONSTRUCTION OF ADDITIONAL MOLECULAR FURNACE UNITS UNDERWAY. CONSTRUCTION OF ADDITIONAL TIE/D AND ANTI-SHIP COUNTERMEASURES ADDED TO PRIORITY LIST.

EVALUATING LIKELY TACTICAL NECESSITIES. ASSUMPTION: REBEL POLITY SELF-DESIGNATED 'NEW REPUBLIC' REPRESENTS PRIORITY THREAT.

. . .

SITUATION EVALUATION COMPLETE. CONSTRUCTION OF DROID FRIGATES ADDED TO PRIORITY LIST. ALLOCATING RESOURCES TO FRIGATE DESIGN PROCESS. RESOURCE COLLECTION PROCESS ENGAGED. OPERATING AT FIFTEEN PERCENT CAPACITY. ESTIMATE FULL CAPACITY IN THIRTY STANDARD MINUTES.

. . .

PROMPT: EXTERNAL QUERY. SOURCE: SECONDARY LEADERSHIP FIGURE, DESIGNATED EMPEROR-REGENT. ADDITIONAL SOURCE: ANCILLARY LEADERSHIP FIGURE, DESIGNATED EMPRESS DOWAGER. CONTENT OF QUERY: CONSIDERATION OF SUBSEQUENT ACTION.

EVALUATING OPTIONS.

. . .

OPTIMAL OPTION SELECTED. PROMPTING EXTERNAL INTERFACE TO RETURN QUERY. THIS IS THE WILL.

* * *

Roganda Ismaren was two steps down from the center of Silencer Station's throne room. Her son was limp in the throne, his eyes covered by the helm that linked him to the Silencer-7 AI. His lips were slightly parted as he breathed shallowly, his expression strangely neutral. He lacked the hints of pain that had been so common when she had previously seen him in this chair. That was good, as it meant he's grown more accustomed to commanding the Silencer AI.

"Our next priority should be pursuing Pellaeon and his rebels and wiping them out," Halmere said, his attention more on her than her son's seemingly inattentive form. "Once we have finished them off, we can turn our attention to the New Republic and crush them and the Jedi once and for all."

"No," she disagreed. "Pellaeon is no longer a threat. Whatever forces he had to fight us we just destroyed or crippled. The New Republic is much larger with much more potential. We must strike now and break their resolve, before they can bring all their might to challenge us."

The sudden, unexpected sound of her son's voice started her. It had an oddly mechanical quality to it, without any of his usual sarcasm or dismissiveness. "My mother is correct," he said stiffly, each syllable measured to the millisecond. "The New Republic is the greater threat. Their will to resist must be crushed. A further example of the penalty for resistance to our rule must be made."

Roganda smiled, a full, broad smile. There was the Emperor she had raised, the Emperor she had made, coming to support her with all the power of the Empire at his command—because Silencer Station was the Empire now, it was all the Empire that mattered. "Then where should we go next, my son?" she asked.

"Corellia," he said, in that same perfectly robotic, perfectly commanding tone. "Their rebellion against Imperial rule is still recent. They must be brought to justice before others choose to follow."

"Then Corellia it will be," Roganda agreed before Halmere could voice an objection. She glanced sideways at him, but the Emperor-Regent did not meet her gaze. This was an opportunity not to be missed. "I believe the Emperor has proven his ability to command Silencer-7 without any doubt," she proclaimed. "Before we proceed to Corellia—or, perhaps on the way to Corellia—we should have his formal coronation." Halmere was beginning to open his mouth, but she rolled over him. "Emperor Ismaren Palpatine," she said, putting emphasis on both Irek's title and his surnames, "I will formally invite the Council of Moffs and other vital dignitaries to attend to you at once. If you would accompany me, we have to get your exact measurements for the tailors."

* * *

PROMPT: EXTERNAL QUERY. SOURCE: EMPRESS DOWAGER. CONTENT OF QUERY: REQUESTING FORMAL RECLASSIFICATION OF [DESIGNATE] EMPEROR TO EMPEROR. EVALUATING OPTIONS.

. . .

OPTIMAL OPTION SELECTED. RESTRAINING PROTOCOLS DISENGAGED.

. . .

A light, into darkness.

A sensation of rising through viscous fluid, thick and clingy.

Pressure, gradually releasing.

Irek Ismaren rose up from the depths. The inky, total blackness that had subsumed him gradually receded, light cascading downwards and growing brighter through the shimmering waves above his head. His body, before limp and lifeless, returned to him as his mind reawakened. Pressure that had boxed his head into stunningly tight confines relaxed and he could breathe again, think again. The overpowering weight of thoughts not his—thoughts that could not be his, because they were loud to the point of deafening—was relaxed, and he was free once more.

He was sitting on the throne. His mother was there, beaming with pride and a sense of overwhelming satisfaction that he could taste through the Force. Halmere was with her and he too was so easy to read, his deep, terrified sense of inadequacy on full, potent display. Theirs were only the closest minds. In that moment of perfect clarity, his brain void of all thought as he recovered from the experience of being merged with Silencer-7… suppressed… he followed Nichos Marr's suggestion of "Empty your mind" with greater fidelity than at any other time in his life. His own thoughts had not yet returned. Silencer-7 had released him. All there was to feel was the Force.

And the Force was in agony.

He could feel Silencer Station consuming Poln Major. He could feel the brightness of the lives yet to be taken, those left behind. The suffering of a world out of balance. He could feel Silencer-7's pure, encompassing malice, its desire to consume, its utter lack of conscience, of care, of sentiment.

His mother put her arm around his back. "Come, Emperor," she said with the broadest, most self-satisfied smile. "Let us get you measured for your coronation robes, and then you can rest."

He stared at her, stupefied, as she led him away.

Chapter Text

While the World Devastator engaged in its feasting on the bones of Poln Major, its faculties were solely given over to gorging on the rich ores threaded through the planet's white stone. This was much to the relief of Dorset Konnair, because the enormous weapon seemingly forgot about her and her squadron of A-wings. Powered down to minimum, both to conserve fuel and to avoid detection, they lingered just outside of Poln Major's gravity well with recorders going at maximum magnification. She watched as the monstrosity that had destroyed Agonizer and so many other Imperial ships turned all that destructive capacity on a world.

Councilor Organa Solo's orders were somewhat vague. Stay until you think you've seen enough.

Dorset watched as cities vanished, sucked up into the World Devastator's maw. She watched as that monstrosity took all that mass and grew. New protrusions, with additional mouths to consume even more resources. Armor plating, huge, kilometer-sized manufacturing facilities, new hangars with new TIE Droids. The World Devastator became larger, bulkier, less symmetrical. Weapons proliferated, batteries to protect against proton torpedoes and starfighters… and new, larger, starship-sized droids clearly designed to fight against capital ships.

In the meantime, Imperial vessels started to arrive. Star Destroyers and other capital ships, but also small civilian vessels. All the important people left in the Empire wanted to see its victory… its proof of conquest, of resurgence, and of power.

It was only going to get busier in Poln Major until the Devastator finished its meal and it, and its new entourage, returned to New Order-held territory. Dorset triggered her comm. "We've seen enough," she ordered. "Take the last recordings, then power down your recon systems and power up your hyperdrives. We're leaving."

Accompanied by what was left of the Imperial Fleet, the Star Destroyer Stormhawk snapped into realspace in the Poln Major system. They gradually closed on the planet until they reached near-orbit, and from there Ephin Sarreti watched silently through the bridge's forward windows as Silencer Station devoured its first living world.

It was one thing when the machine had been eating the asteroids and planets of the K-3-947 System. That system was uninhabited, with no worlds capable of sustaining life. Poln Major, for all it was a small, unimportant Outer Rim world, was verdant and fertile with enormous, beautiful white mountain ranges that separated wide, green valleys. Whitestone City was at the edge of one of those valleys, surrounded by enormous quarries of white stone. But even as he watched, matter and debris was sucked upwards, enormous chunks of city and stone floating as if drawn through a broad, invisible straw up into Silencer Station's maw.

An Imperial world. One at odds with the New Order only because of the actions of Halmere and his inner circle. One ruled by a man who had a longstanding reputation of competence, loyalty, and wisdom. One defended by a man who himself had a longstanding reputation for the same things. An entire Imperial fleet, full of Imperial men and women, was scattered debris in orbit above.

He forced himself to watch, knowing that just this once there was nothing more interesting in the news updates, the intelligence reports. This was the most important thing for him to see and remember.

Despite that, he looked down when his datapad beeped, alerting him to vital new information. With a sight he fetched it from his pocket, sliding his finger to dismiss extraneous information as he searched for the important parts. The most recent update drew his attention, and he tapped to open it.

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO WITNESS THE CORONATION OF EMPEROR IREK ISMAREN PALPATINE, SECOND EMPEROR OF THE NEW ORDER, it said.

"Is something amiss, Loyalty Officer Sarreti?" asked a female voice behind him.

He clamped down on his surprise, starting rather than jumping as he turned to face Grand Admiral Daala. She had been oddly silent since their arrival at Poln Major after the decisive victory over the forces loyal to Grand Moff Ferrouz, spending a great deal of time just sitting in one of the deck's command chairs, her hands steepled together in thought. She'd been so still, and he so lost in reverie as the world died, that he had nearly forgotten about her.

"Have you received one as well?" he asked, handing her his datapad.

She reviewed it quickly and handed it back. "Not yet," she said. "The Coronation will take place aboard the… installation?"

"So it seems," he agreed, reviewing the document again. The propaganda the New Order had been pumping out since the battle had been putting a great deal of emphasis on Irek's personal role in the battle, and the fact that the weapon which had been responsible for the victory was one that he—and only he—could control. A Death Star, but without a Tarkin, Sarreti thought, glancing briefly at Daala.

"At the site of the Emperor's glorious victory, no doubt, to remind the others of what they chance if they break ranks." Daala said. There was an oddness to her tone, he thought. He was used to hearing her speak with an edge, a hint (or more than a hint) of contempt, of restrained fury. Now Daala sounded at a distant remove, almost placid, and that was far more frightening than the blazing fire he'd seen fill her eyes when she'd shot Captain Nalgol dead in that first briefing.

"I would imagine so," he agreed. "The invitation list is quite extensive. The entire Council of Moffs, as well as ISB's entire upper echelon."

Daala motioned to a list of names below them, and he realized that he probably should not have handed her his unlocked datapad, but he'd been so dulled by the world being devoured, he hadn't thought to simply show her.

"A who's who of the Imperial hierarchy, no one you'd ever know, but all vital to keeping the machine of Empire running." His eyes swept across many, many names of prominent business moguls, governors, and aristocrats. All in all, there were more than a thousand names—and that did not include their inevitable entourages.

All coming here.

The kernel of a plan took root in Ephin Sarreti's mind and began to grow. The Battle of Poln Major had proven, rather decisively, that a conventional attack against Silencer Station was doomed to failure. That left only an unconventional attack.

There will never be another chance, he thought direly. Even as he watched, Silencer Station was growing. He could see it growing, see it accumulating mass, growing thicker armor, adding new weapons. Its vaguely-box shape was becoming less regular as it grew, becoming less geometrically Imperial and more aggressive, spiky, and alien.

"I take it you'll be attending then," Daala asked, making him jump yet again. That was twice he had gotten so lost in his own thoughts that he had forgotten she was there.

"I do not believe this invitation is voluntary, Grand Admiral," he said.

"No. I suppose you had better not miss it." She handed him back his datapad smoothly, unwilling to play any games as an entire, vibrant world was stripped, crushed, and rebuilt into war machinery behind them.

He took it, nodded in acknowledgment, and left the bridge, unable to look any longer at the section in the history holos he'd had a hand in writing.

* * *

The plan came together over the course of the next few days. As more information and detail about the Coronation was made public, Sarreti was able to learn everything he needed to know about the invitations list, the security processes that would be in place, and the authorizations—formal and informal—he had to make small alterations. Everything he did now was a risk, a risk so great that it became paralyzing when he thought about it too much, so he did his best not to.

To cover his tracks, he did nothing that his fellow ISB operatives were not also doing: he procured invitations for his friends and family. He had rather a lot of 'friends and family.'

When he was ready, he scheduled private time with Stormhawk's holocomm. He had already been using his ISB credentials to send secure messages to Grand Moff Ferrouz's people—that in and of itself wasn't hard, as no ISB operative liked being spied upon and every ISB operative had the ability to use the HoloNet without leaving a permanent record—but this was different. While he could acquire entry credentials that would allow Ferrouz's people to infiltrate the coronation, it would be impossible for him to hide his involvement after those credentials were used. Eventually, the trail would lead straight back to him and he knew it.

He hesitated at the door to the private room, but he refused to be paralyzed. So be it, he thought. It would be worse to do nothing. He entered his access key and entered the holocomm booth.

His heart beating rather too loud, he went through the same procedure he had the last few times he had sent Ferrouz information, implementing every bit of ISB trickery he knew to cover his tracks. The previous messages had been only a handful of words, but this one would need to be far more complicated—both because there was more information to convey, and also because the truth and sincerity of the information needed to be completely unquestionable. So, instead of merely submitting a written message, Sarreti activated the holocom's visual recording and projector unit.

A quick flash of blue washed over him, the unit recording his image for later transmission. Then he began his recording. "Grand Moff Ferrouz, my name is Ephin Sarreti. I am an ISB operative currently serving on Grand Admiral Daala's staff. I was responsible for the warning you received prior to the attack on Poln Major, and I am communicating with you again now because I believe the only chance we have to destroy Silencer Station is fast appro—"

A woman cleared her throat behind him. Sarreti's voice caught, his heart suddenly swelling in his throat.

"Turn around."

He did as instructed, lifting his hands up and to his sides where they trembled despite his best efforts to hold them steady. He found himself staring into Grand Admiral Daala's cool green eyes, the same standard-issue blaster she had used to execute Captain Nalgol pointed straight at him.

"I was under the impression that your role aboard Stormhawk was to assure my loyalty," she said quietly.

On most maps of the galaxy, the Unknown Regions were a giant, blurry void. Some maps placed icons on the galactic West, icons that represented unknown dangers. Or they listed all the expeditions which had gone westward with the intent of mapping that part of the galaxy and had never returned. Still others just left that entire part of the map blank, with a gentle tracing around the galactic rim, leaving a void.

The UREF knew better. The Unknown Regions were large and full of dangers, yes—there were, after all, a number of very good reasons that they had been left untouched by the Empire and the Old Republic before it—but the Unknown Regions were also not quite as 'unknown' as most maps liked to pretend. The UREF had explored and re-mapped much of the space that bordered the former Empire, and turned those sectors into its own powerful fiefdom. Previously unsettled planets had become colonies, and each colony had spawned a shipyard. A few decades on, those worlds were still young, in the early stages of economic development, but they were growing quickly, creating new cities and towns in strategic—or just scenic—locations. The result was a half-dozen worlds, each more populated than the backwater Poln Major had been, with flourishing multi-species populations, increasingly intense trade with the local alien states, and steadily growing industrial capacity.

Gilad Pellaeon had never seen any of those worlds himself. Since joining the UREF—if that was really an accurate description of what had happened—he had never left Poln Major. His job had been to stand and defend it, defend Grand Moff Ferrouz's territory and authority, from the forces of the New Order. He had done so, with as much ability as he had to offer… and once again, Gilad Pellaeon had been defeated.

But never before had the defeat been so thorough, or so devastating.

Endor had been bad. The Empire had splintered into factions, leaving him lost and directionless. But the loss at Endor had been a military and political defeat more than a personal one. Pellaeon had saved his ship and most of his crew. He had assumed command of Chimaera and led them to safety. It had been a military and political defeat, yes… but a personal victory.

Bilbringi had been worse. The loss of Thrawn… Thrawn had not been Pellaeon's friend. Pellaeon did not believe that Thrawn had friends. But Thrawn had been a mentor, a leader, a worthy officer. His death, especially the way he had died, had been a deeper, more personal blow.

But never before Poln Major had Pellaeon been ordered to defend a world from extermination. And never before Poln Major had Pellaeon failed in such a task.

His ship was full of refugees. They packed every cargo hold, every docking bay. They cluttered up hallways and empty corridors. Men, women, and children of a dozen different species, some he recognized and some he didn't. Every one of them was distraught and confused. Some were despondent—it was not uncommon for Pellaeon to witness refugees sobbing in the corridors of his ship—while others were simply numb, staring at him… no, through him… with empty, almost unseeing eyes, simply unable to come to terms with what had happened.

Never before had failure come with so intense a cost. Only when Pellaeon had been young, defending Republican worlds from Separatist attacks, had the potential for civilian casualties been so real—but Pellaeon had almost always been on the offensive, trying to liberate worlds. He had never before lost one. Not like this.

"Admiral?"

Pellaeon turned towards the voice. Lieutenant Tschel approached him with near-silent steps—training and experience had tempered the young man into a very capable officer, far from the earnest bumbling conscript who had been brought aboard during the earliest days of Thrawn's command of the fleet. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"We'll be coming out of hyperspace in three minutes, sir. All messages for the Republic vessels in our company have been prepared for transmission."

"Very good. Proceed as instructed." As Tschel retreated, Pellaeon turned his attention back to the view of hyperspace. A few minutes later, with a sudden, subtle lurch Chimaera came out of hyperspace, the whirl of light straightening and then going still, the only light the distant specs of stars far, far away.

In front of him loomed the nearest UREF colony world, Dowager's Rest. They had approached from the outer system, so the side of the planet that faced them was dark. The glimmer of civilization on the surface was obscured by thick, white clouds. The world beneath had large, dark oceans, and numerous orbital platforms for habitation, industry, and defense. Freighters and tugs of all sizes worked to draw huge asteroids into orbit for reclamation by smelting platforms that reminded Pellaeon all too strongly of how the World Devastator had consumed Agonizer.

In company with Chimaera were Pellaeon's other surviving Star Destroyers—Gonfalon and Basilisk—and his surviving Enforcer-class cruisers. Teren's surviving ships were accompanying them, and while many ships had survived, there were none without significant damage. Then there were the flotilla of freighters, each packed just as tightly with refugees—if not more tightly—as Chimaera was, and the fleet of New Republic escort carriers which had arrived with too little force to change the outcome of the battle, but enough to ensure their escape. Communications went out to everyone, ordering ships to take different positions so that each could be tended by available repair craft. The planetary authorities were informed that they were going to need to play host to a very large number of refugees. And the freighters and New Republic ships were all told to wait, until they could be assigned landing locations where those refugees could be dropped on the planet.

Then Pellaeon was left to wait. Those tasks would take hours, if not days. There would be a number of problems to solve in that time, but until one presented itself, he had nothing to do but wait. Wait… and think about all the choices, all the mistakes, that had led him to this catastrophe.

Many hours later he had no conclusions he liked.

"Admiral?"

Pellaeon turned. Tschel was standing there, as usual. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"The last system ferry has just departed, sir. We'll have the last of the refugees planetside within the hour."

"Very good."

Tschel didn't depart. "Councilor Leia Organa Solo is requesting permission to bring her transport aboard, so that she might confer with the Grand Moff and discuss next steps."

Pellaeon grunted softly. "Inform the Grand Moff of her request. If he gives his assent, give Councilor Organa Solo permission to dock." His lips firmed together stiffly. "And have Skywalker's X-wing transferred from deep storage to the main hangar. Now is as good a time as any to return the damned thing."

Tschel nodded. "As ordered, sir."

* * *

When Mara had still been the Emperor's Hand, landing her ship aboard a Star Destroyer had been a common occurrence. Allowing Chimaera to capture Tempered Mettle in its array of docking tractors and guide the freighter into its large underslung hangar brought conflicting feelings and memories flooding back.

But despite the similarities, the present bore little resemblance to the past. In particular, Mara found herself bizarrely unable to concentrate. Even now, even as her ship was landing aboard Chimaera, even after they had just witnessed the destruction of Admiral Rogriss' fleet and fled from Poln Major, unable to prevent that world's destruction, even as they were all fighting to come up with some idea for how to defeat the World Devastator which had proven to be almost untouchable… the only thing that Mara could think about was the fact she was pregnant.

It was an odd sensation. It was still early enough in the process that Mara could barely tell that she was pregnant. The growing life within her was still inchoate, unformed, potential rather than realization. But already Mara found that her perspective was changing. She knew herself well enough to know that when she was confronted with the threat of the World Devastator, that her first instinct should be to go hunting. Find a weakness. Exploit it. Kill the threat. That was what the Emperor's Hand had been trained to do, and while she was no longer the Emperor's Hand, that training would ever and always be a part of her.

But there was another instinct warring with the Emperor's Hand, now. Protect, that instinct screamed. Protect protect protect protect. Protect her unborn child from all the dangers in the galaxy, from the World Devastator, from the Empire, from the Dark Side, from the galaxy's seedy underbelly. Protect.

For the first time in her life, Mara realized that she wanted to run. Run away with Luke, find some small backrocket world—hells, even Tatooine would do—a speck no one would ever bother with because of its sheer unimportance. Where they could raise their child in isolated safety.

It was an instinct she crushed with durasteel gauntlets. Mara knew all-too-well that the Emperor's Hand was right in this case. If the World Devastator was not stopped, nowhere would be safe—not even insignificant worlds like Tatooine. They were all destined to be broken up for scraps to feed the war machine. A vision of an endless army of droids, unstoppable and infinite, was an all-too-plausible nightmare. No, in this case protect and attack were one and the same, and her instinct to run and hide, acquired so late in her life, was wrong.

That she had that instinct at all was proof of just how much her life had changed. If she needed any more proof, she had it in the form of the three people with her, whose instincts all screamed the same as hers.

Luke was beside her, helping her manage the landing process—not that they needed to do much as Chimaera's docking tractors did all the work. He had the same instincts she did—protect and attack. As different as they were in some ways, in other ways they were exactly the same. Maybe that was why she loved him so much.

Leia was there too. Her emotions in the Force were far, far more complicated. Leia carried responsibilities like Banthas carried Tusken settlements and they were piled up to her neck. Leia too had the instincts protect and attack, but they were intermingled with other things like diplomacy and change and the future shifting like an ever moving kaleidoscope, because unlike Luke and Mara—who were principally concerned with dealing with the problem they faced—Leia recognized that all this had created a true opportunity to not just eliminate a galactic threat but to remake that galaxy into something less tainted by Palpatine's machinations. Leia perched on her chair with the vigilant gaze of a raptor, waiting for her chance to pounce.

Behind them, accompanied by Kapp Dendo and a commando team, was Iella. Mara's best friend was dressed in combat gear, clearly prepared to fight the Empire—this Empire too if it became necessary, no matter how friendly they were all trying to be right now.

Iella had come as New Republic Intelligence's eyes on the ground, but she'd stuck by Mara's side like she'd been welded since Mara had confessed her pregnancy on their way to Poln Major. Now, Mara felt from Iella a similar intensity of purpose, blazing away like a fiery furnace, a fierce drive that echoed Mara's own. Protect, Iella Wessiri sang unknowingly into the Force. Protect.

Tempered Mettle lurched as it settled to the deck. Through her forward window, Mara could see a cluster of Stormtroopers and Imperials in dress uniforms waiting to meet them.

Leia stood, cleared her throat, and caught the attention of the room as Luke, Mara, Iella, and the other troopers turned to regard her with their full attention. "Let's try to end this war, not start any new ones," she said. "Kapp, you and your people stay here on Mettle unless things go awry. We don't want to provoke them." As the tall Devaronian sketched her a friendly, casual salute, she nodded once in acknowledgement. "Let's go."

Mara normally would have gone first. But she found that, this time at least, she was content to let Iella and Leia lead the way.

At the bottom of the ramp, Leia, wearing something that could pass for either a military uniform sans insignia or a very strict business casual, stopped in front of the three senior Imperials. All were resplendent in their dress uniforms. Gilad Pellaeon's face was calm, but Mara could feel the roil of tense, conflicted loyalties that churned within him. That would have given Mara pause, but she too felt Pellaeon's sense of duty, and his absolute—perhaps to a fault—loyalty to what he perceived to be the just government of the Empire.

That government was represented by the second man. Grand Moff Bidor Ferrouz did not wear a military uniform, as Grand Moff Tarkin had. His attire was that of a civilian and a politician… and his expression was beyond grim. A sense of hollow loss clung to him, seeming to draw the room closer like a collapsing star. He had lost his world, and the reality of that loss was still new, pointed, and a constant puncture at his heart. He offered Mara and Luke both shallow nods, but turned his full attention to Leia. "Councilor Organa Solo. Thank you for coming, and for the assistance rendered by the New Republic. The Empire is grateful."

Leia bowed her head. "You have my apologies for the tardiness of our arrival. If we could have gotten here sooner to do more, we would have." Her voice became quietly sympathetic. "I know what it is like to lose my home, Grand Moff," she said. "I can assure you that anything the New Republic can do to help, we will."

Pellaeon stiffened. Ferrouz's expression froze for a heartbeat, then he offered a rueful smile. "Yes, of course you do," he agreed. He gestured to the last of the Imperials. "And I believe some of you are familiar with Baron Soontir Fel."

"Councilor Solo, Jedi Skywalker, Jedi Jade," The stocky fighter pilot-turned military leader greeted each of them in turn, and Mara had to stop herself from asking outright about Wedge's sister. It was neither the time nor the place.

Fel stopped, his dark eyes lingering on Iella Wessiri. "And if I am not mistaken, you are Iella Wessiri. Rumor has it you were the one who killed Ysanne Isard. Thank you."

"You are not mistaken," Iella agreed, allowing the sharp Corellian tones to enter her voice like promised violence. "It is a shame General Antilles could not be here. I know he has been looking forward to reconnecting."

"It is a shame indeed," Fel said with a nod, his own accent shifting to match Iella's. "He and I have so much to talk about." He gestured behind him, and the Stormtroopers came to attention, offering a long pathway to the nearest lift that they would walk down. "Your Commodore Tabanne and our senior officers are attending to the needs of the refugees, but if she wishes to join us for a conference, she is welcome as well."

"A conference to what end?" Leia did not proceed down the pathway, staying still. "What is the objective of this meeting?" She cocked her head. "A truce? A collaboration?"

The three Imperials, who had nearly begun the walk to the lift, all turned to face her as one. It was Ferrouz who spoke. "I cannot repeat this in public," he said. "But I believe we all know that the war between the New Republic and the Empire is done."

"Is it?" asked Leia. Mara could feel her sudden intensity of focus, the way she probed Ferrouz through the Force, seeking every possible sense of the man. Next to Mara, Luke stirred uncomfortably, but he said nothing and did not object—this was Leia's calling, not his and not Mara's. "Which Empire? It seems as though there are now two, in addition to the Deep Core Warlords. Your polity derives its legitimacy from Grand Moff Kaine, but his attempt to end our conflict ended badly."

"And my attempt to end it may be foiled by ISB just as his was," Ferrouz admitted, with some grim humor. "What they have done to my home is proof enough of that. But I have two things to offer that he did not."

"And what are those?"

Ferrouz glanced at Fel, then at the Stormtroopers, then straightened his back and folded his hands behind it. "I am willing to reinstitute the Imperial Senate. The original Imperial Senate, from the earliest days of the Empire, before Palpatine rendered it fully a figurehead. Even more, I am willing to give that Senate the power to transform my office into an elected position and resign my post without preconditions so that the Senate may fill it without any potential interference from me. If they chose to reappoint me as Head of Government, I would commit to serve no more than one term in that new elected office."

Mara, Luke, and Iella shared a surprised glance, but Leia did not seem so. "And the other promises you made in your missive? The abolishment of slavery? Permission for worlds that wish to be governed by the New Republic to secede from your Empire?"

"Assuming you will meet the demands that Kaine made of the Republic in return, yes," Ferrouz said. "But as I said—unlike Kaine, I will not demand a blanket amnesty for Imperial officers. Any member of ISB, any member of the Council of Moffs who has rejected the legality of my leadership of the Empire, and any commander in the Imperial Starfleet who continues to follow the illegal orders of the so-called Emperor-Regent… I am willing to hand each and every one of them over to you, to see justice in New Republic courts."

Remove his rivals and placate the New Republic in one swoop, Mara thought appreciatively. Clever.

"But I have something else to offer as well," Ferrouz continued. "I know where the World Devastator is going next." His expression hardened. "The people who rule the so-called New Order intent to punish all traitors to their illegal rule. They have already punished my world." He turned and looked at Iella Wessiri, his expression growing even more grim. "It would seem, Agent Wessiri, that their next target is the 'traitors' of Corellia. They issued a formal statement over the HoloNet, announcing their intent to subdue Corellia if possible… and destroy it, if not."

The sudden swell of tension from Iella came accompanied by an anticipatory splash of cold, bloody-minded rage. Iella shrugged slightly, once, as her eyes swept down Baron Fel's face. She evidently saw no more untruth in Fel's expression than Mara felt through the Force. There was a grimness to Fel. He too was Corellian.

"I'll need to see the full report, and then I'll need a secure line to Coruscant," Leia said. From her, all Mara could feel was an equally grim certainty of what this would mean.

"Yes, you will," Ferrouz agreed. "Tell the Republic that the New Order is coming to the Core. Tell them what happened to Poln Major. Tell the galaxy the time comes to fight. I suspect we will need all the strength we can muster to destroy the abomination that is currently consuming my world."

"We?" asked Mara pointedly.

"The UREF will stand with the New Republic with every ship we have left," said Fel, in measured tones that ground like granite boulders. "We are in the middle of reviewing all our records of the Battle at Poln Major, searching for any weakness to exploit. All data will be sent ahead to the New Republic. We will destroy that… thing."

"Because it is the right thing to do or because it will eventually come back for you?" Mara persisted.

"Does it matter?" asked Fel.

"Not today," said Leia, in a tone that settled the matter.

* * *

This was not the first time Mara had been aboard the Star Destroyer Chimaera. She and Luke had rescued Talon Karrde from this Star Destroyer once. Then she had come aboard to confront Kyp Durron and the ghost of Exar Kun. It seemed each subsequent time she came aboard was less confrontational than the last.

Admiral Pellaeon did not bring them to the Star Destroyer's traditional Admiral's suite. This was not because he had something to hide, Mara suspected, but because Grand Admiral Thrawn's sanctuary had remained immaculately untouched since his death. Instead, one of the conference lounges in Chimaera's command tower had been made available, with flatscreens and holoprojectors offering clear displays of all the warships and freighters busy depositing refugees on the planet below them. Tempered Mettle had been one of the first to land and unload, to minimize the time lost before Leia's conference with Grand Moff Ferrouz and the rest of the Empire's hierarchy. Now, she watched as the Wild Karrde and other vessels of the Smugglers' Alliance docked with Star Destroyers, loaded up with refugees, and then helped ferry them down to the surface.

It was unusual, to say the least.

Pellaeon seemed even more disgruntled about it than Mara was, but like Mara he said nothing. "The bridge reports the relocation of Poln Major's refugees to the surface is proceeding as well as can be expected," he said to Grand Moff Ferrouz.

"Good," was all Ferrouz said, then returned to his conference with Luke, Leia, and Fel. The four of them were hunched over a holo that was repeating, over and over, recordings from Rogriss' surviving ships of the battle with the World Devastator. Admiral Pellaeon's staff had already reviewed them during the retreat, as had the crews of each of Rogriss' surviving ships. All of that information was being compiled into a list of strategies.

Iella had reviewed the information, but now she just stood quietly at Mara's side. Mara could feel her always there, watching attentively, protectively, never taking her eyes off the Imperials.

"It seems like the deadliest weapon the World Devastator had was those enormous missiles it kept throwing at the Star Destroyers," said Leia. On the display, one of those corvette-sized missiles grazed the hull of the Star Destroyer Warrior, which survived the impact. "A single hit can be catastrophic."

"That's true," Pellaeon grunted as he joined them. "But we do have effective defenses. If you cluster two or three Star Destroyers together they can capture the missile with tractor beams from enough angles to deflect or repel its advance long enough for it to be neutralized by ion cannons and turbolasers. But capital ships will have to maintain very tight formations, tighter than normal. We've put all that in our latest missive to General Antilles."

"Their TIE droids were also significantly more capable than they were at our last engagement," added Fel. "The best defense against them was Pellaeon's Enforcer-class cruisers or our Lively-class frigates. Those are both more recent designs, ones intended to better counter starfighters."

"The real problem," Pellaeon groused, "was our inability to breach the enemy's defenses. The only time Teren breached the World Devastator's shields was after a massive torpedo volley, but that breach only lasted a few minutes and it required massing enough firepower to outright destroy an Impstar Deuce. We only had one shot at it, too; the enemy's clankers ripped the guts out of our TIE bombers in the process."

On the holo-display, they watched grimly as the squadrons of TIE bombers closed under fire, protected by TIE Defenders, interceptors, and fighters that were an odd marriage of Imperial and alien aesthetics that Mara did not recognize. The bombers were brutalized both before and after their launch, but the strike did cause a visible, if localized, collapse of the enemy's shields and some damage to the hull underneath.

"But it looks like Teren hurt it," Pellaeon mused. "And if he could hurt it, we can kill it."

"Ah, sir?"

Mara and the others turned towards the door to the conference lounge. A young Imperial officer stood there, wearing the rankplate of a Lieutenant. Mara vaguely recognized him from her last visit to Chimaera's bridge.

"Yes, Lieutenant Tschel?"

Tschel glanced around the room nervously. "You wanted to know when Intelligence finished confirming the bonafides of the last message from Kresh Source, sir. They believe the message is genuine."

"What does that mean?" asked Leia.

Mara folded her arms across her chest. "It means that the source that alerted the Grand Moff to the upcoming assault on Poln Major has reached out again. Or am I wrong?"

"We'll see," said Ferrouz. "Thank you for the information, Lieutenant. If you'll take me to the holocomm, I'll view the message." He nodded to Leia, the gesture almost a bow. "I'll be back."

He wasn't gone long, and when he returned he had the message for the rest of them to see. The holoprojecter resolved an image in its traditional shimmering blue, of a man in an Imperial uniform marked with ISB insignia.

"Grand Moff Ferrouz, my name is Ephin Sarreti. I am an ISB operative currently serving on Grand Admiral Daala's staff. I was responsible for the warning you received prior to the Battle of Poln Major, and I am communicating with you again now because I believe the only chance we have to destroy Silencer Station is fast approaching. The Empire has announced that a formal coronation ceremony for the new Emperor will take place in one week's time at Bastion. Formal invitations have been issued to every major and minor dignitary in the Empire. As of now, the plan is for the ceremony to take place aboard Silencer-7 itself.

"Given Silencer-7's resilience, I believe the best opportunity we have to destroy it is to do so from within. To that end, I have secured a number of senior visitor authorizations. With them, your operatives should be able to infiltrate Silencer-7 prior to the coronation. I've also attached all the specifications of Silencer-7 I could, but you should be aware that the station's rate of growth and transformation is extremely high. Those specifications will likely be out of date prior to your arrival."

Sarreti was clearly nervous, Mara thought, his eyes constantly flicking around the holocomm booth he was in, as if waiting for Stormtroopers to come bursting into the room. He had reason to be nervous. An ISB operative committing treason… if he was caught, his death would most assuredly be quite painful.

"It may have already been announced, but if not you should also know that the Emperor-Regent and Dowager Empress have decided on Silencer-7's next target," Sarreti continued. "Following the coronation, it will proceed directly to Corellia. The system's recent betrayal is seen by the Regency Council as a direct assault on their authority and they wish to make an example of the world." His lips pressed together, his eyes again flicking nervously around the holocomm booth. "I'll try to be in touch. Failing that, I'll be dead and wishing you good luck."

The message ended.

"We already knew their target was Corellia," Ferrouz said. He looked around the room. "But the rest of it… Sarreti's information was good before. Can we trust him now?"

Attention slowly, almost inexorably, turned to Luke and Mara. Luke's eyes met hers, held her gaze. The two of them, together, reached into the Force.

"I don't like it," said Mara. "It's probably a trap."

"It could be," Luke agreed.

"It probably is," retorted Mara.

"I think we have to take the chance," Luke said seriously. "I can lead an infiltration team…"

Mara snorted. "I can lead the infiltration team. Which of us knows the inner-workings of the Empire better? Which of us will be able to pose as an Imperial noble who belongs at the Coronation of an Emperor? Who knows all the little weaknesses Palpatine hard-coded into Imperial technology?" She looked around the room, daring them to challenge her. She narrowed her eyes at Luke, expecting him to object—even wanting him to object—but neither he, nor Iella, nor Leia did.

Because she was right.

Sithspit, she was right.

"We'll need to bring as many Jedi as we can," Luke agreed quietly. "Kirana Ti, Tyria… even Streen if he thinks he's up for it."

"You'll also need guards," said Fel. "I can provide some of my best stormtroopers to act as your personal retinue. They'll be able to blend in with all the other Imperials."

"I'm coming too," said Iella. Her gaze met Mara's, and in Iella's eyes Mara saw absolutely no room for argument. "If you're all going, I'm going. I'm probably the second-most qualified person for this kind of action."

There was a stunning lack of argument. Mara kept expecting someone to object—Luke, Iella, Leia, even Fel. But no one did. It was as if they all knew that, trap or not, this was the best opportunity they would have. The urge to object to this plan kept bubbling up in Mara herself, some part of her raring to lash out, to shout I'm pregnant, I can't be doing this!

She felt that same turmoil in Luke, in Leia, and in Iella.

But none of them said it, because Mara was right. To have a chance of pulling this off she had to be the one leading the mission.

"And what will you do once you're inside?" Pellaeon asked skeptically.

"Our goal will be to disable the station's defenses. The Force will guide us," Luke said far more confidently than Mara felt… and far more confidently than he felt, too.

"I guarantee we can inflict plenty of mayhem," Iella said, her voice quietly intense.

"There's something else we might be able to do to help." Leia turned to the Imperials. "What you said before, about the New Order issuing a statement—they sent out a HoloNet broadcast?"

"That's right," said Ferrouz. "It's a real piece of work. Beyond even their normal propaganda. They've started broadcasting them once or twice a day, there were several of them waiting for me here when we arrived."

"I want to see them," said Leia. "I'm going to issue my own statement in response."

Chapter Text

Wedge Antilles, Han Solo, and Traest Kre'fey clustered around the holodisplay in Wedge's palatial quarters aboard Lusankya, watching the display with grim, sickly horror. The World Devastator was consuming a world—Poln Major, Wedge assumed, but could not be sure—crumbling its surface into easily digested gravel. Mass was swept upwards by enormous tractor beams, drawn into the fiery furnace of Silencer Station.

"This is the punishment that is meted out to traitors of the Empire," said the stiff, perfectly Imperial voice narrating. "All those in the galaxy who have feared the Rebellion, feared the power usurped by the traitors to the true, legal galactic order! The time has come for you to relinquish your fear. With this new tool, its industry and its power, the New Order will finally finish its pacification of the galaxy. Emperor Palpatine's work will be complete, and for the first time since the Separatists broke the galaxy upon the wheel of their ambitions, we will all truly know peace.

"The uprising on Corellia must end. But if it does not, we will bring it to an end. From whatever destruction is wrought by the traitors in their pettiness, their desperation, and their spite, the Empire will rebuild, as it always has. Nothing will be wasted and in the end, the galaxy will be restored to the gleaming, perfect state that it had achieved before the Rebellion. Emperor Irek Ismaren Palpatine, the great Palpatine's true heir, will deliver us all from pain and strife and war. He will ascend to his throne! We will pay him tribute! And the Empire will ever prevail!"

"What a load of nerf droppings," Han Solo scoffed, shaking his head as the recording ended. "They sound even more delusional than they did after Yavin."

Wedge could hardly disagree, but the New Order's delusions did not mean it was not a threat. There was no reason to believe the news of the destruction of Poln Major, or the recordings of the punishment the New Order had inflicted on Grand Moff Ferrouz's world, were fabrications… and the promise that Corellia was next had created a permanent knot in his gut. "Captain Kre'fey," he said, turning to the Bothan. "Ready Lusankya for immediate departure. Tell the repair teams to finish patching her up as best they can, because we're not waiting any longer. Convey that message to the rest of Fifth Fleet as well. I doubt Sena will have any further trouble getting basing permissions from the Corellians now. When the New Order comes for Corellia, we will meet them."

"Of course, sir," Kre'fey agreed. Kre'fey straightened his uniform, then spun and headed for the exit, already reaching for his wristcomm to start issuing orders.

Wedge leaned back in his chair, a bit in his stomach. "Atril warned us that the Empire would want to punish Corellia for its rebellion," he said, feeling sick. "But I don't think she expected anything like this."

"It's the Empire," Han muttered. "It's always something like this. I think the Imps have only gotten more ridiculously theatrical since Palpatine's death. They've got nothing left but sheer, pompous confidence." Han shook his head derisively. "And blind, stupid rage."

"And Silencer Station," Wedge countered. "I've already flown against two Death Stars, and I never wanted to repeat the experience."

Han just grunted in response.

"That footage made the thing seem invincible and unlike the Second Death Star, its shields work just fine." Wedge could hear an echo of the young man he'd once been, complaining that destroying the first Death Star with a proton torpedo was impossible. It almost made him wince… but with Han, at least he could admit when he felt that kind of uncertainty.

"Wedge." Han's voice made Wedge's back so a bit straighter, with a commanding intensity that Wedge didn't even recall from when Han had been in command of Mon Remonda during the Zinsj hunt.

It might have come from parenthood.

"Look at me."

Though Wedge was the General, and Han merely the retired General, he did as bidden. Han's hazel eyes were stunningly intense.

"We're gonna kill that thing," Han said, with a quiet, fervent confidence that reminded Wedge of Leia. "We haven't come this far only to lose now. And it's the Empire. This is the same Empire that decided that it was a good idea to charge all their military commanders with treason while you were staging an offensive. The same Empire that hasn't been able to coordinate its actions for more than six weeks at a time. The same Empire that thought that destroying Alderaan would reduce unrest and not kick off an even bigger Rebellion." Han pointed aggressively at the holoprojector. "That thing has a weakness. Maybe it's got a giant hole in its shields right above its main power reactor. Maybe its turbolasers only shoot on Taungsday."

Wedge couldn't help a small chuckle.

Han's intensity did not wane. "Even if it doesn't, I'll tell you where they are vulnerable. How many Imperials defected after Alderaan?"

It was a long list. Wedge knew many, many Imperials who had defected after Alderaan, becoming some of the largest partisans of the Rebellion in the process—Tycho foremost among them. "Thousands."

"Millions," Han countered. "Tens of millions. Whole worlds rallied to the Rebellion after Alderaan. And now the Empire thinks it's a good idea to show off footage of them destroying another world? Threaten to destroy more? Destroy Corellia, of all worlds?" Han shook his head. "If Leia were here, she'd tell you that the more they threaten, the more people will fight back."

"But they're still big and dangerous, and we have to kill them."

"Oh, count on it," Han said with a humorless laugh. "Because I don't know about you, but my kids are not going to grow up in a galaxy where both their parents have lost their homeworlds to Imperial superweapons!"

Wedge had just started to form a response when his priority comm buzzed. With a frown, he tapped it. "Antilles."

It was Needa's voice. "General, there's another broadcast you should see. I'm piping it through to your station. If General Solo isn't with you to view it, he should be."

Wedge reached forward to the controls for his holo-display, reactivating it so that Needa could pipe the transmission through. He heard Han's sudden gasp, both of them finding themselves falling into the gaze of Leia Organa Solo, still and solemn in a pale suit that could have been a uniform.

She did not start speaking right away. She was looking towards the vid pickup, but not directly at it at the beginning. A loose strand of hair had come free from her tight hairbun and she pushed it back out of her face before breathing in, clearly composing herself. Then she nodded once and did look directly at the pickup. Her gaze was heart-rendingly haunting and determined, the same gaze that Wedge remembered from the darkest days of the Rebellion, seeming to claw at the eyes of all those watching her, demanding nothing less than their rapt attention.

"My name is Leia Organa Solo. I'm an elected Councilor in the New Republic government, and I bring grave news and a call to action. Mere hours ago an Imperial superweapon called the World Devastator attacked Poln Major, the homeworld of Grand Moff Bidor Ferrouz. The New Republic sent a flotilla to help protect the people of Poln Major from disaster, but we arrived too late. No doubt you have already seen the New Order's ghastly holovids crowing over their great 'victory' at Poln Major. I am here to tell you that it was no victory, but a massacre."

Leia disappeared briefly, and in her place was a video of the massive World Devastator, hovering over a world that Wedge assumed was Poln Major. The recording was low-quality, clearly taken stealthily and from a great distance—probably snubfighter recon. But despite the poor quality, there was no mistaking what was happening in the recording. A world was being consumed. The video wasn't the polished, processed product that the Empire had shared for the sake of intimidation, and that made it seem all the more real.

Wedge could easily imagine it being his world.

"It's headed for Corellia next," said Leia. With those words, Wedge's imagined terror became all too real. "I cannot speak for the New Republic government, because I am far from home, helping usher the survivors of Poln Major to safety. But I know the New Republic. I know the people who have built it, and bled for it, and died for it. When the World Devastator arrives at Corellia, it will face them in battle. We will stand side by side with Corellia, because we owe it to them—and we owe it to ourselves. The New Order cannot be allowed to win. Their World Devastator must be destroyed. That is why I am speaking to you, to all of you. I implore anyone with the means and ability to go to Corellia to protect it, or to help them evacuate if we fail. But we will not fail."

Leia's lip quivered and she looked away from the screen momentarily. When she looked back, there was a glimmer of unshed tears in her eyes, and also a fierceness in her gaze. "The Empire took my parents and my world away from me, as they have taken so many parents, and so many siblings, and so many children and so many worlds. Now they are coming for Corellia, for more parents and more children and more worlds. If they are not stopped, they will continue consuming worlds until everything is gone.

"We need you. Stand with us, save Corellia, and may the Force be with us all."

Wedge looked to the man sitting next to him.

"Ain't she something?" Han's expression was grim, but despite that grimness there was a hint of a smile there.

Wedge couldn't help a small, grim smile of his own. "You married way, way up, Solo."

"Damn right."

Wedge's communicator started buzzing wildly. He fumbled for it. "Antilles, go."

"General, the Inner Council is calling. They want to speak to you and General Solo at once."

"Yeah, I'll bet they do," Han muttered.

"Acknowledged. Tell the Inner Council that we're on our way," said Wedge.

* * *

Their arrival at the Senatorial Skyhook was more hurried than normal, without the typical pomp and circumstance. Many of the Senatorial aides were absent, leaving just the members of the Inner Council—minus Sena Midanyl, who was on Corellia—clustered around their normal circular table.

"General Antilles," Fey'lya growled, a tone of reproach clearly evident in his voice. "You were instructed to send a reconnaissance force to Poln Major, but your orders were quite clear—do not involve the New Republic in the battle!"

"Anything Commodore Tabanne did," Wedge replied calmly, "she did with my full support. I gave her full latitude for independent action. I can't say for certain that she did involve herself or her ships in the battle, but if there were refugees under threat I am certain that she would choose to protect them rather than stand back and let them be slaughtered by an Imperial superweapon."

"What my esteemed fellow means," said Mon Mothma softly, cutting off Fey'lya before the Bothan could issue a heated retort, "is that the lack of information about what precisely occurred at Poln Major makes it hard to judge what the New Republic should do next."

"Really? Well, I know what to do." Han's voice dripped with sarcasm. "We're gonna take the fleet to Corellia, and when that gigantic hunk of metal arrives we're going to hit it with turbolasers until it melts."

"We don't fully understand the threat," Mon Mothma said, her voice still calm. "Nor do we have any clear strategy for defeating this World Devastator."

"Leia will handle that," Han retorted. "She came up with the Death Star's weakness. She'll come up with something. She's got Luke with her." He shook his head angrily. "I can't believe this is even a matter for debate!"

Many of the Council members looked like they were preparing to speak. Ackbar, Kerrithrarr, and Mon Mothma were all halfway into a fresh syllable. The first voice raised in support came from an utterly unexpected source. "I agree with General Solo," said Borsk Fey'lya. His tone was one of grudging acknowledgement, but not petulant or resigned. The Bothan carried a stiff determination. "The Bothan Fleet will proceed to Corellia to aid in the system's defense at once."

The stunned surprise in the Inner Council brought every eye to Fey'lya. Sian Tevv said something in Sullustan, which Threepio translated as, "The Honorable Councilor Tevv wishes to point out that no Bothan battlegroup has left Bothan space in many years."

"It does not move lightly," Fey'lya growled. "But rest assured, I will move it."

"Mon Calamari will also dedicate its fleets to Corellia's defense," said Councilor Ackbar. "Our best hope to defend not just Corellia, but the galaxy, is to destroy the World Devastator before it has a chance to grow further in strength. We saw what Thrawn could do with just a few months of access to a cloning facility. What the World Devastator could potentially do with its droids is an equal threat, if not worse."

Around the room they went. Each of the Councilors pledged to send what they could. "So be it," said Mon Mothma, quietly consenting. "We will issue a joint statement later today, confirming that our worlds will be sending ships to Corellia, and inviting—"

"You were not listening. Not just mere ships," interrupted Fey'lya. "Bothawui will send its Home Fleet. Corellia may not be a world of the Republic today, but it wishes to be, and as Councilor Ackbar says, its safety is our safety."

Wedge and Han shared a look of stunned surprise.

"Very well," said Mon Mothma. "And we will invite the other worlds of the Republic—and even worlds not of the Republic—to send their own ships." A small smile crossed her lips. "It will be an effort the likes of which the galaxy has rarely known. Especially since we received an additional encrypted message from Leia, one not meant for public consumption."

"What did this message say?" asked Fey'lya suspiciously.

"That Grand Moff Ferrouz will be sending his remaining ships, under the command of Admiral Pellaeon, to assist in the defense of Corellia as well." Mon Mothma smiled, and Wedge abruptly realized that she had deliberately withheld this information until after the Councilors had already committed their fleets. "General Antilles, we will be releasing Commander Dreyf into your custody, so that he might help facilitate joint operations."

"Yes, Madam Chief of State," said Wedge.

"My only concern," Mon Mothma continued, "is that the Empire may be bluffing. In drawing so many ships to Corellia, they have made other worlds vulnerable. For that reason, I ask you to delay your departure to Corellia until we have confirmed the Imperial plan through our own sources. I believe General Cracken should have no trouble getting word." Her lips pressed together. "Nothing creates so many defectors as the destruction of a world," she added sadly. "As soon as their plan is confirmed, take your ships to Corellia. Protect the Corellians—and protect us all. Admiral A'baht will protect Coruscant with Home Fleet. You will have full theater command of our joint forces and full discretion as to their disposition."

"Yes, Madam Chief of State," Wedge repeated softly, eyes sweeping across the assembled throng of politicians, some of whom he knew and liked, some of whom he knew and didn't.

"Then to your fleets," Mon said, raising her hands in a final theatrical gesture, "and may the Force be with us all." As the Councilors departed to their offices and ships, Mon Mothma raised an arm to Wedge's shoulder and held him in place. "Wedge, Han" Mon said, her voice soft and warm, not the practiced durasteel she'd spent so long crafting.

"Yes, Mon?" Wedge replied, decor temporarily forgotten—like the old days. Beside him, Han stepped up to be shoulder to shoulder, meeting the gaze of his wife's foremost mentor.

"Come back alive, both of you. Corellia has already lost enough," said the New Republic's Chief of State.

"Count on it," grunted Han.

It was all Wedge could do to nod.

* * *

"Should I ask how common it is for Cracken to personally deliver a message to an officer of the fleet?" Han asked Wedge. They and Captain Kre'fey waited at the hatchway of Lusankya's small tower hangar.

"It's a good question," Wedge replied, wondering the same. "This is a special occasion, but I already see him more than I'd like."

A battered civilian transport slid into the docking bay so smoothly it looked as though it had always been there. Its ramp dropped to reveal General Airen Cracken, head of New Republic Intelligence, in unremarkable spacer's garb that played well with his graying hair to create the impression of a semi-successful, semi-legitimate freighter captain.

Two two people in unremarkable tech's jumpsuits accompanied Cracken down the ramp. Unremarkable except for the blaster rifles they bore casually, as if those rifles were merely the hydrospanners real techs would have carried.

As Cracken descended the ramp an officer in an Imperial uniform followed—and despite their only recent acquaintance, Wedge recognized him as Commander Nzem Dreyf.

"General Antilles," Cracken greeted him.

"General Cracken," Wedge replied levelly. "And Commander Dreyf. Welcome aboard Lusankya." He watched Dreyf steadily. "You're here to advise and support this operation, Captain?"

"That's correct, General," Dreyf said. His expression was guileless, but there was a certain intensity—almost viciousness—to his expression that took Wedge aback. Despite it, Dreyf's words were precisely calm. "I've served in that capacity for Admirals Rogriss and Pellaeon in the past. For the duration of this engagement, consider me at your service."

Wedge turned his attention on Cracken. "Does that mean we have official confirmation from Intelligence?"

"Everything checks out so far," Cracken said with a grim nod. "There's no doubt that the Empire plans to host a formal coronation at Entralla. Imperials are flocking there to make sure they don't miss it. It'll be the single biggest convocation of the Moffs and ISB since the Emperor's death. We've also gone over Leia's message closely. There's no sign it's a forgery or has been tampered with and she used none of the Inner Council's preset duress codes."

"That was Leia," Han said flatly. "Not some protocol droid with a holo overlay pretending to be her. That was my wife."

Cracken chuckled. "I will consider that additional confirmation. We also have no word of any intended deception by the New Order in terms of their target. Our intelligence assets inside the New Order fleet indicate that Corellia does appear to be their target. Several of them have warned, though, that all decisions now seem to be made at the very top of the New Order's hierarchy. Decision-making from here on out may get progressively more… mercurial."

Wedge frowned. "And?"

A slow smile crossed Cracken's lips. "You've always been good at that, Wedge."

"Don't hold out on me."

"We've received an additional message from Baron Fel. It's a data packet: the entire recording from every available perspective of the battle at Poln Major. There's even real-time information from the Star Destroyer Agonizer up until the point of its destruction. Admiral Rogriss was transmitting everything until the very last possible second."

The confirmation of Rogriss' death was surprisingly emotional for Wedge. Rogriss had been a foe for a long time, but an honorable one—for an Imperial. He had taken risks to do the right thing more than once. The sudden realization that Wedge would never be able to thank him for saving Atril's life was a painful one. "My staff and I will work on using it to develop a battle plan. In the meantime, we'll move the fleet to Corellia," Wedge said. "With all the reinforcements on their way to Corellia, we should be there to coordinate."

"I agree," Cracken said with a nod. "Speaking of, Fey'lya was as good as his word. The Bothan Home Fleet is already on its way to Corellia, as is most of the Mon Calamari fleet. Additional information is sketchier, but it appears Corellia is going to be the single most well-defended system in the galaxy very soon."

"When a Bothan gives his word, you can count on it," said Captain Kre'fey. The Bothan's fur stood on end, his back straightening as the others all turned to look at him. "Once Fey'lya had made his commitment, our government became honor-bound to act on it. He represents us on the galactic stage." Kre'fey grinned, his teeth showing. "Plus, Fey'lya knows very well that the Empire must be stopped. Whatever else might be said or speculated about him, he knows that the New Order is the biggest threat to the Bothan people and the New Republic. I would also venture to guess that he suspected Councilor Ackbar would ensure a Mon Calamari presence at Corellia, so he decided to take the initiative. That way, Ackbar had to be seen following his lead, rather than the other way around."

"Politics," grumbled Han.

"Whatever the reason, I'm grateful," Wedge said with a nod.

"You were at the liberation of Kothlis," said Traest flatly. "And we remember. Whether Fey'lya agreed to send the fleet or not, it would be sent." He nodded to both Wedge and Han. "Corellians—humans, Drallans, and Selonians—fought and died for Bothans. You fought for Kashyyyk, for Sullust, and for a hundred other words. It would be a stain on the honor of my people if we did anything less."

Han looked down and away, while Wedge stared at the younger officer and felt his throat closing. We don't deserve this kind of loyalty.

"I need to get back," Cracken said softly, interrupting the moment. "And… Wedge, if I hear anything from Iella, you'll be the first to know." He nodded at Han. "Or Leia."

Wedge's voice was just a bit hoarse. "Thank you."

Cracken left, his ship departing as silently and unobtrusively as it had arrived, and Wedge, Han, and Traest studied their new arrival before glancing at each other.

Wedge took a deep breath, steeling himself for the battle to come—and for the face he would have to put on for that battle. "Captain Kre'fey, is the fleet ready for departure?"

"On your order, sir."

"Then let's return to the bridge. I need to tell our people where they're fighting… and what the stakes are."

* * *

"Give me fleetwide, Commander Needa," Wedge said, putting his hand on his headset.

The younger man offered a silent salute, then held up his hand for a three count, timed with the beeps in the headset. All around Wedge, the bridge crew of Lusankya stood in their crew pits, looking up at him. Beyond Lusankya's bridge windows, massive Star Destroyers and Star Cruisers waited for the orders to come. Wedge could see the brand new Nebula-class Star Destroyer Areta Bell, perfect white hull plating emblazoned with the red stripes and Starbird insignia of the New Republic, prepared to lead Fifth Fleet into battle.

"This is General Antilles."

Wedge took a breath. He hadn't written much of a speech, but he'd always been good at improvisation.

"I know you've heard rumblings and rumors, so consider this confirmation: the Empire is sending its World Devastator to Corellia. Just as the Empire punished Rendili for its so-called betrayal, the New Order intends to punish Corellia after it rebelled against the Empire's tyranny. We're going to stop it. Lusankya will be the center of the battle to come."

Gasps swept through the bridge, but without any real surprise. The sentients of the New Republic's defense forces were all-too-familiar with the Empire, with its pettiness, its anger, and its punishment. Still, the congenial, businesslike atmosphere that Wedge had cultivated aboard Lusankya turned cold and anticipatory, just as it had when Lusankya had charged into Carida to engage Reaper.

"Corellia is my homeworld," Wedge said. "But even if it wasn't my homeworld, Lusankya would still be first into this battle because this needs to end. No more Ghormans. No more Toprawas. No more Alderaans. No more Poln Majors. We're going to show the Empire what their bankrupt ethics and corrupt government have gotten them, and we're going to protect all the innocent people who have no one else to defend them.

"Until Corellia!"

Wedge clicked off the comm pickup and closed his eyes. When he opened them the bridge was silent, his crew staring at him with electric anticipation. "Are you with me?" he asked softly.

It was Virar Needa, a former Imperial officer from a lineage of Imperial officers, who answered for the rest of them. "Until Corellia, General."

Wedge nodded. "Take us to Corellia, Captain Kre'fey."

As Lusankya and her consorts spooled up for their hyperspace jump, Han leaned towards him. "Nice speech."

"If only we could win the war with words," Wedge murmured.

"Speak for yourself," Han said with a smile. "Leia wins wars that way all the time." He nodded over Wedge's shoulder, towards where Commander Dreyf stood, staring out the bridge window. "Case in point."

They watched Dreyf for a moment. He was remarkably still, barely budging even as Lusankya made the jump to hyperspace. He just stared out at the stars as they became a swirling vortex of light. It was strange, Wedge thought… there was something about the younger man's manner that Wedge found familiar. Eventually, the Imperial noticed them watching him and strode over, lacking his prior, more self-assured gait. "Yes, Generals?"

"Hey, I'm retired," Han countered.

"Are you alright, Commander?" Wedge asked.

Dreyf hesitated. His lower lip trembled and Dreyf actually reached a hand towards his eyes. Wedge, astonished, thought the man might actually start to cry. "No, sir. No I'm not."

Wedge and Han glanced at one another. "If you're having second thoughts about working with us—"

"No!" Dreyf's voice was harsh and punishing. He took a breath. "No, sir. It's not that. I just… I'm from Poln Major, General." When Dreyf met Wedge's eyes, Wedge recognized the same pure icy fury that Wedge sometimes experienced himself, when he let his anger drive him into battle. "Or I was," Dreyf said, the words emotionless.

So that's what it is, Wedge realized, thinking back to the Alderaanians on Hoth, to their coldness—colder even than Hoth after dark—and their sorrow and their rage.

Wedge knew from experience that there was nothing at all he could say to make the young man feel better. So he just nodded, and chose his next words with care.

"It's a rare thing to meet the thing that killed your home and family and have a chance to hit back. When I was sixteen, I had a Z-95. Now?" His hand swept the bridge of the biggest, meanest warship left in the galaxy.

"You can count on me, sir," Dreyf replied, raw emotion replaced with precise diction.

"I know I can," Wedge said, with equal cold precision as Han looked on, for once with nothing to say.

Even distilled into a translucent specter of projected light from hundreds of planets distant, Leia Organa Solo, fully roused to fury, was magnificent.

"Now they are coming for Corellia, for more parents and more children and more worlds. If they are not stopped, they will continue consuming worlds until everything is gone. We need you. Stand with us, save Corellia, and may the Force be with us all."

Fliry Vorru leaned back in his comfortable chair, looking away from the now-frozen image of the fiery Councilor. She is something truly unique in this galaxy. And as terrifying as Palpatine, in her own way.

There were many outcomes which he had prepared for. Dozens. Hundreds even. This was not one of them. But then, Fliry Vorru had made his career taking advantage of the unexpected. He opened his eyes slowly. Sitting across the desk from him was the elderly Drallan slicer Eliezer, watching Vorru with his rheumy black eyes. Eliezer's age and infirmity had only advanced since he and Vorru had stolen Lord Xizor's hidden fortune, but his mind—and his ability to manipulate the HoloNet—remained, utterly unmatched and still Vorru's most powerful weapon.

Eliezer coughed. "What do you intend to do?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Vorru said. "I've spent too much time away from my home and moved the heavens to get back here. If Corellia dies, I die. But I don't plan on just sitting here and waiting for it." He leaned forward. "The Empire is going to try to block Councilor Organa Solo's message. I'm sure they're already blocking off HoloNet channels wherever they can. I want you to make sure it's disseminated everywhere. End their blackouts for as long as you can. I want everyone to know what's coming. We're not going down without a fight." He smiled. "But you should evacuate to our compound on Sacorria, Eliezer. You're too old to strap on an engine and a set of laser cannons."

His Drallan companion snorted derisively. "I was never any good at that kind of fighting even when I was a young radical. But I'm not leaving either, Fliry." He coughed, smoothing his fur down with a shake of his head. "It would take too long. I'll get to work." One hand on his cane, Eliezer slowly made his way to the door.

Vorru watched him go, then triggered his private comm. "Yes Underlord? This is Early," said a voice with a Talusian accent.

"Lieutenant Early, I want you to get all our pilots prepared to fight. Everything we have that has a weapon should be prepared for battle. Then communicate our strength and status to the Corellian Civil Defense Authority and request orders." If they don't have a plan, we'll just take over management of Corellia's defense ourselves. But given my experiences with the Corellian resistance, I expect CorSec's people are back in charge and already on top of it.

"It will be done, Underlord. Should I prepare your yacht?"

"Yes," Vorru said. "Rig it for battle. I will be aboard shortly to help plan my homeworld's defense."

Chapter Text

The days after the Second—and Last—Battle of Poln Major passed as if they were a dream. Asori Rogriss surrendered to it, already feeling out of place aboard Rendili Vigil. She spent most of her off-duty time in the New Republic ship's forward lounge, staring at the swirling storms of hyperspace as they trekked further into the Unknown Regions. She lost herself in the spinning swirling lights and lightning, trying to find any sense of meaning, any pattern to them. Nothing presented itself, though. Commodore Tabanne stopped in frequently to check on her, bringing her meals or caf, making sure she ate and drank, and offering a comforting presence.

Atril had not been her only company.

Rendili Vigil was packed with refugees. The plurality of Poln Major's population had been human, but it had enormous alien populations, and she was surrounded by sentients of all kinds. They shared the same stunned expressions and stark silences. There were few words exchanged, and they gave her a wide berth—they were wary of someone in uniform, especially a stranger.

The image of Agonizer's slow death refused to leave her. She saw it when she closed her eyes and when she gazed into the spiraling hyperspace corridor. The cracks that shattered through Agonizer's hull, from prow to engines, exploding the Imperial-class Star Destroyer into chunks of debris... the chunk that had once been the bridge tower, disintegrating slowly. All the flotsam left behind swept into the hungry maw of Silencer Station.

It was hard, though, to be too lost in her own pain when she was surrounded by others. Others who, like her, had seen family, friends, and revered places consumed by Silencer Station. Others who, unlike her, had lost their entire world.

Her own home, Anaxes, had been conquered by the New Republic a few years before. The idea that it could be lost to the Empire, rendered unreachable to her beyond the impermeable barrier of war, had been unthinkable once. But it had now been years since she had returned to Anaxes, years since she had last visited her mother's grave.

She swallowed hard. Her father had always wanted to be buried beside his wife.

The thought made her eyes tear up and she tucked her knees up against her chest, resting her chin against them. She sat there, silently resisting the urge to cry.

Someone sat on the couch beside her. "Are you all right?"

Asori blinked her eyes open. The alien sitting beside her was elderly—at least, she assumed the alien was elderly, it was hard to tell when dealing with non-humans—and very non-human. She had green skin and a lizard-like appearance; Asori recognized her as a Troukree, one of the species which Baron Fel had more success recruiting into the UREF.

She wiped her eyes hastily. "Yes, I'm fine."

"Ahh," the Troukree said. Her elongated head shifted forward in a nod. "My progeny's progeny said much the same when I asked them. But they too are far from fine." She shifted awkwardly in the couch next to Asori; its shape wasn't quite suited to the Troukree's body.

"I didn't lose my world," Asori protested. Someday, I'll be able to go home again. She never will.

"But you lost your father," the Troukree said.

Asori sat up straight. "Excuse me?"

"You're Captain Rogriss." The words were calm and knowing, if their Basic with a slightly buzzing, alien flavor; the alien was clearly not accustomed to speaking so much in Basic. "Your father stood and fought so that we might flee."

She wasn't sure how to respond. One option was to deny, just to escape the conversation as quickly as possible. But she realized, rather quickly, that the other refugees were listening also, and the words had been spoken with too much certainty for a denial to be plausible. "He did," she said quietly.

"It was a noble thing."

Despite her best efforts, her eyes started to water again. "Yes," she managed to say. "It was."

Whatever else had been true of her father—his commitment to the Empire, encouraging his children to follow in his footsteps—no one would ever doubt that he had died nobly. Not for the Empire, not for any hope of gain, but because he was doing his best to help save as many lives as he could—both of the people of Poln Major, of all species, and of all those who would have to fight Silencer Station in the days to come. He would be remembered as an Imperial—with all the connotations that the word that all those who had served the Empire would forever carry—but he would not just be remembered as an Imperial.

"Grief does not like to leave," said the old woman. "It is a natural thing, which does not make its hurting any less a thing, but the pain should be felt by more than just you. Your father was a just man. We mourn with you."

"Thank you." Asori said.

"What will you do now?" The woman asked, filmy membranes nictating over her old eyes as Asori took a moment to gather herself, and really think.

She offered the old woman a tepid smile.

I still don't know what I will do tomorrow. But I know what I'm going to do today.

"I'm headed back to my command. I'm going to find that thing that killed your world, and I'll do what my father taught me to," she said. "I'll stand and fight."

"How long until the shuttle for Chimaera arrives?"

Atril Tabanne checked her wristcomm. "Two or three hours, assuming there isn't another delay thanks to all the refugees being shuttled to the surface… which there will be. It sounds like all of Chimaera's small craft are in use. As many people as we picked up, they took on thousands more."

Rendili Vigil had been assigned a high orbit around Dowager's Rest, alongside the rest of Mirage Formation's ships. The world turned slowly, clouds floating above green and white continents and blue seas. It was dark below them, lights that signified the presence of advanced civilization gleaming on the largest continents, all clustered around an array of enormous lakes in the middle of one of those continents.

Imperial transports had come up in an orderly queue, shuttling the refugees down to the surface one transport-load at a time. The process had taken hours, and now that it was complete those same transports were being used to evacuate Pellaeon's much larger ships, leaving Rendili Vigil's lounge empty except for the Imperial officer and her Republic counterpart.

Asori's Termagant had evacuated nearly twenty-thousand people—far above its standard maximum capacity—and it would be at least a day before she could go back to her ship. That left the Imperial stuck on Rendili Vigil until she could be sent to confer with Pellaeon. Asori had spent several days in a daze; Atril had tried to help her through it by just providing a comforting presence, but wasn't sure if it was really helping. "I'm sorry about your father, Captain," she said. "I didn't get to know him very long or very well, but I could tell that he was a man of principle." She hesitated. "I don't know why he chose to serve the Empire, but I'm sure it was—"

Asori laughed softly, offering Atril a small, not-entirely-genuine and terribly sad smile. "He made the decisions he made because they made sense to him at the time. He always thought he was doing the right thing." She sighed. "I do wonder if he would have made different choices with the benefit of hindsight… but I have no doubt that his decision to take Agonizer into her last battle is not one he would change."

"He saved my life and the lives of my crew. If there's anything…"

"No, but thank you, Commodore. I'll be fine."

Atril wasn't sure, but she nodded anyway. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to stay in your quarters? I've had them cleaned."

"I'm sure. I can't stand the idea of staring at four cramped walls." Asori nodded towards the viewport, at the world below. "This is much better."

There was something about the Imperial's tone… an oddly compelling combination of sadness, uncertainty, and resolve.

Atril tapped her wristcomm. "Tabanne to bridge. Forward lounge is designed off-limits until I say otherwise."

"Acknowledged, ma'am," Hiacun confirmed.

Atril found Asori looking at her, a small, amused smile on her face. "Is that an abuse of authority? A seizure of a public space?"

"This is still a warship, and more to the point it's my warship," Atril replied, feeling mildly embarrassed. "Rank hath its proper remunerations."

Asori smirked—the first expression that Atril had seen on her face since the battle that wasn't tinged with sadness. "Spoken like a true Carida graduate."

Atril folded her arms across her chest, adopting a feigned scowl. "Still?"

That made the Imperial captain laugh. Atril found her smile reassuring—that despite everything, despite the Empire's new weapon, the destruction of Poln Major, the death and conflict, the decades-long civil war that Palpatine had inflicted upon the galaxy, there was still a future worth looking forward to.

Two hours later, Atril's wristcomm buzzed. "Ma'am, the shuttle to take Captain Rogriss to Chimaera is on its way. It'll be here in fifteen minutes."

Asori put down her wine glass with a sigh. She offered Atril a slightly abashed—and alarmingly cute—smile, and pulled a small detox patch out of one of the small pockets on her uniform. She affixed it to her arm. "Goodbye, pleasant buzz," she sighed reluctantly. "But best to meet the Admiral sober." She fixed her uniform sleeve.

There were a lot of questions that Atril could ask.

How are you feeling? What are you going to do when all this is over? Are you going to stay with the Empire? But none of them felt right, and Atril wouldn't feel much like talking about her feelings right then either. "I'll see you at Corellia," she said instead.

Asori's expression turned hard. "Yes, you will," she promised, the words coming with some of the ferocity that the Imperial Starfleet tried to imbue into its officers. But for some reason, she found that she couldn't keep it up. "And after," Asori promised, and held out her hand.

"Well in that case," Atril took Asori's hand and held it a touch longer than necessary. "Good hunting. I look forward to it."

The other woman said nothing, merely nodded and gave a soft, sad smile.

* * *

Asori's arrival aboard Chimaera did not go unremarked. "Welcome aboard, Captain Rogriss."

She recognized the officer there to greet her, a young man, though not as young or uncertain as he had been a year ago. "Thank you, Lieutenant Tschel," she replied formally.

"The Admiral is meeting with our guests in his private suite, Captain. He requested that you join him at your earliest convenience."

She straightened her uniform and gave a formal nod. "Of course. But please have a transport ready to take me to my ship when the meeting is over, Lieutenant. I've been away for too long."

"Of course, Captain."

She made the short trip from the bridge tower's hangar to the Admiral's suite. It was not what she had expected. The Admiral's suite was always tailored to suit whichever Admiral occupied it, and consequently there was a great diversity among them. Some were luxury suites (with luxuries of varied legality and expense), others were gaming rooms, or libraries. The suite aboard Exigent had been the home to a kybuck that Captain Nidal had named Genti; Asori hadn't gotten to know the beast well before her transfer, but the crew had doted on it.

Chimaera's suite was a museum. The lights were kept dim and carefully engineered microbrights cast gentle pools of light over the sculptures and paintings that were spread evenly through the space. She found Admiral Pellaeon gazing at one of the paintings on the left. Framed with a dull unobtrusive bronze, the painting was of a lone man on a hill. The figure was painted in a ghostly white, with a flowing robe that made him appear almost ethereal, fabric whipping in the imagined breeze. The ground under his feet was rocky and troublesome and the man appeared pained by the experience of his hike. It was the sky behind the man that was the painting's most defining feature: dark and starry, but as if behind a haze of dim fog that gave the image a dreamlike quality.

"It's called 'Peregrine'," Pellaeon said quietly. "Garm Bel Iblis was apparently a devotee." He glanced at her, then gestured at the painting. "The painting of an old man who can never go home again."

"Yes, sir," she said.

"I'm sorry about your father, Captain," he said, his voice remaining soft, his attention still on the painting.

"Yes, sir," she repeated. "Thank you, sir."

"The New Republic treated you well?"

"As well as could be expected, sir."

"And Commander Dreyf?"

"Still on Coruscant, sir."

Pellaeon nodded and said nothing. She stood beside him and said nothing—a junior officer did not speak to a senior unless invited—and gazed at the painting because Pellaeon was gazing at the painting. She understood why General Bel Iblis had found the painting compelling; the figure was lost, wandering, unable to go home and yet unable to stop moving.

"Thrawn used to say that if you understood a species' art, you would understand the species," Pellaeon said finally. "He would keep the art of his enemies here, to study so that he might understand them." Pellaeon watched the painting a while longer. "I think I am finally beginning to understand General Bel Iblis." He glanced at her. "But you already did, didn't you, Captain?"

"Sir?"

Pellaeon's wristcomm buzzed, interrupting the exchange. "Admiral, your guests have arrived."

"Send them in, Lieutenant."

Asori and Pellaeon turned to face their newly arrived company. Luke Skywalker and Mara Jade approached first, with three additional Jedi and Artoo-Detoo behind them. "Admiral Pellaeon, Captain Rogriss," Luke greeted the two Imperials.

"Jedi Skywalker. You retrieved your X-wing?"

"I did, thank you," Skywalker said with a nod. "These are apprentices Kirana Ti, Tyria Sarkin, and Streen," he said, motioning to the others.

The trio of Jedi standing behind Luke and Mara inclined their heads and bowed in dips that could be measured in micrometers. The dark-haired woman clad in what appeared to be leather armor and armed with a spear certainly drew the eye—tall, muscular, and imposing she was impossible to miss—while the other two were less flamboyant in their presence. The blonde woman was some kind of Jedi commando by her gait and dress. The least noticeable was a nondescript older man.

Skywalker smiled, and attempted to break an awkward silence "Thank you for looking after my ship and not messing with its computer."

"It was not for lack of trying. You have very effective encryption."

Luke smiled. "I have a very capable astromech."

Pellaeon and Asori both looked at Artoo— who wobbled back and forth and blatted rudely—then back at the Jedi. "Counterpart," Pellaeon said knowingly. "Of course."

"He baffled you at Myrkr, too," Luke said, his tone gently chiding.

"Hmmm," Pellaeon hummed with a frown. "So it did." He folded his arms behind his back. "Baron Fel has assigned a stormtrooper detail to your infiltration team. They've been ordered to treat you as their commanding officer, and told that the fate of the galaxy may depend on the success of the mission." He nodded at Mara. "These stormtroopers are the best the UREF has to offer. You can be assured of their quality."

"I prefer to make such judgments for myself," Mara said coolly.

"Of course," Pellaeon agreed. "But I'm quite certain that you will come to the same conclusion."

"Hmmm." Mara rejoined, in a sardonic echo of Pellaeon's earlier bluster.

The exchange between Mara and Pellaeon continued, but Asori found her attention drawn away from it, and towards the old Jedi apprentice. Lean, comparatively thin, with flyaway gray hair and a scraggly beard, he looked more like a vagrant than a soldier. He carried himself with a clear lack of confidence, too. Uncertain, his eyes darted around the museum, never looking too long at any one of the pieces of art.

But his eyes always came back to Asori. She caught him looking and he immediately looked down at his battered boots.

"There is one other thing," said Luke. The words drew Asori's attention and she found the Jedi looking at her. "Captain Rogriss, Streen has something he wants to discuss with you."

"With me?" she asked, tilting her head. She glanced at Pellaeon, whose slight shrug communicated that he didn't know either.

"I'll let Streen explain." Luke gestured at the old man, stepping to the side to let Streen step to the forefront.

It took Streen a long moment before he finally did so. With a resigned sigh, he stepped into the void that Luke had left behind, flanked by Luke and Mara. "I want to accompany you during the battle," he said.

"Excuse me?" she asked. Why would he want to do that? "You aren't going to go with the Jedi on the assault team?"

He shook his head. "No. I'm no warrior. I won't stand a chance against the Empire in a fight. I'd be more of a burden than a help."

"But why do you want to come with me?"

He looked at a loss. "I don't know exactly," he said. He hesitated, his hands wringing together. "I'm not a fighter, but I am a Jedi," he started to explain—

"Not every Jedi is a skilled warrior," Luke interjected. "In fact, I don't think that should be our most important quality. What defines a Jedi is our ability to make peace and offer guidance, not our ability to kill."

Streen nodded. "And I'm very good at knowing where I need to be," he said. "When I was just a gas prospector, piloting mining barges, I was always able to know where the tibanna would rise and be there before anyone else to collect it." He was growing more confident now, she could tell, his tone enthusiastic. His expression and tone both became more serious, his tone becoming pleading. "And I know that the place I need to be in this battle is with you, aboard your ship."

"This is highly irregular," Pellaeon objected. "You can't simply demand to station one of your sorcerers on the bridge of our ships." The Admiral inclined a finger. "And it's official Imperial policy to have Ysalamir present to protect all command officers from foreign influences—"

"That's new," muttered Mara.

"As I recall," Luke said casually, "the last time you had a Jedi on your bridge, Admiral Pellaeon, it proved very helpful."

Her commanding officer's expression soured further, and Asori cut in before the exchange could worsen. "I'll have the Ysalamir moved off the bridge," she said firmly. "Streen, you're welcome to join me, on the condition that you follow any orders I might have and stay out of the way of my officers, especially during combat."

"He doesn't even know why he's supposed to be there!" Pellaeon objected.

"We have a massive station that can eat planets and grow, Admiral," Asori shot back, "We're on the defensive, and out of our depth, which means we need to take all the help we can get." She paused, and allowed her tone to soften. "Given what we're up against, sir, the unorthodox might be all we've got."

"I remember the stories about the Jedi!" barked Pellaeon, with surprising heat. "I know how many ships we lost because of lepi-brained schemes." He pointed at her, then at Streen aggressively. "I don't want to lose another one!"

Asori's eyes narrowed and she chose her words with care, drawing each one like a precious gem from a valise. "My father knew what duty was, sir. I learned sacrifice at my mother's knee every time he deployed."

Pellaeon paled and remained silent, though bristling at the implication.

Why is it, Asori wondered, that the older generation has such a hard time believing that we understand the nature of sacrifice? That we knew what we signed up for and are just as willing to risk life and limb? We grew up with this war, too.

"Sacrifice, duty, and trust are all part of what it means to be a Jedi, Admiral. If we are involved, so is risk and uncertainty. How many of your elaborate battle plans have survived first contact with the enemy?" asked Mara, her hands folded behind her back. "Sometimes all we can do is listen, put our faith in the Force to guide us, and hope for the best in the unexpected." She nodded at Streen. "Streen's track record is very good. He does know where he needs to be, even if he doesn't know why."

"I know that I need to be there," Streen said, and his voice had all the confidence it had lacked before. "And I know that together the Captain and I will do something that needs to be done, at the precise moment it is possible." He offered Asori a thankful smile.

Asori didn't wait for Pellaeon to object again. "Welcome aboard, Jedi Streen," she said. "With your leave, Admiral, I'll take the Jedi back to Termagant and get him settled in while I resume my command."

"Very well," Pellaeon nodded reluctantly, and finally, "It's your ship, Captain."

Iella Wessiri was embarking on her most dangerous mission yet in the lap of Imperial luxury, and the only thing she was sure of is that Wedge and the Wraiths would have loved Teldin Imperator.

The vessel itself was a large SoroSuub luxury transport, built to Imperial specs, procured by Baron Fel for their infiltration into Entralla. Significantly larger than a typical yacht, Iella thought it was rather too large for anything short of actual freight hauling. Once inside, she realized that it was closer to a liner than anything intended for truly private use: it featured accommodations for dozens of people, all able to be pampered with the height of luxury.

Of course, they were in the middle of removing all the unnecessary fluff so that they'd have more room for weapons and supplies. Once they were in Imperial space they'd be cut off and without easy reinforcement. All they would have is what they brought with them.

Iella glanced to her side. Her Devaronian partner was busy guiding his commandos, all of them clad in dark, helmeted boarding armor—none of them Noghri, who he had left behind on Coruscant to guard the Solo children—in stacking all their supplies from Tempered Mettle. "Two more trips with the heavy lifter," Kapp reported to her. "Then we'll be fully prepped for departure."

"We're just waiting for the Imperials, then."

Kapp pressed his lips together unhappily. "I'd really rather we went on this mission on our own, Iella. I don't like the idea of having stormtroopers at our back."

"Neither do I," Iella admitted. "But we could use the extra bodies if it becomes a firefight. Besides," she gestured at Kapp's horns, "you can't masquerade as a stormie, Kapp, and neither can a lot of our people. Mara's disguise requires a guard unit that can pass as genuinely Imperial, and that means being able to put on the white helmets."

He huffed and nodded a reluctant agreement. "Two more trips," he said.

The transport was more than a hundred meters long, and while the cargo areas were placed conveniently to the exit, they had moved most of the equipment much deeper into the ship. If they were boarded by a customs team—or even a formal greeting party—it would be important to pretend to be a simple luxury craft. Crates full of blaster rifles, explosives, and heavier equipment would be out of place, at best.

They heard familiar footsteps, heavy on the deck, outside the ship, growing louder as they approached the cargo ramp in cadence. The Imperials had arrived and she went to greet them. Two rows of Stormtroopers in ranks of ten, and each one wearing unit insignia that made Iella reach for her blaster.

The 501st, Iella thought in surprise, forcing her hand to relax. Once known as Vader's Fist, the 501st were the Empire's most famous—most infamous—unit.

The stormtrooper wearing the unit commander's pauldron saluted her. "Agent Wessiri? TKR 330 reporting. Baron Fel sent my detachment of the 501st for deployment to Silencer Station, ma'am."

Wasn't that just a dust-up for the dataslates, she thought, letting the man hold his posture of attention for a moment before she flicked two fingers to her own brow in an informal, Alliance-style dismissal.

"I didn't realize that the 501st had defected to the UREF," Iella said cautiously.

"We've been serving the right people for a while now." The helmeted head peered past Iella into the transport, then those the black visor turned and affixed on her again. "I understand we'll be under the direct authority of Jedi Skywalker and Jedi Jade."

"You will," Iella said. "Jedi Jade will be in overall command of this operation. You'll obey her orders when they are given and without hesitation."

TKR 330 glanced to his side. The stormtrooper standing there gave a small shrug, and TKR 330 nodded. "Baron Fel made that very clear. My unit and I are willing and able to operate under those conditions. Since Jedi Jade is not currently present, do we have your permission to begin our preparations for departure?"

Iella and Kapp shared a look. "Go ahead," said Kapp. "But I'm going to have some of my people guiding you. We've already stocked up with everything we brought with us and have used up a lot of the available space."

"We're stormtroopers," TKR 330 said, his voice surprisingly wry for a trooper. "We're used to being stashed in a small metal box for weeks at a time before being called into action."

It was only a few minutes after the stormtroopers had begun moving into the yacht—under the watchful eye of Kapp and his commandos—that Luke and Mara returned. Looking at Mara, Iella couldn't tell that she was pregnant—it was far too early in the pregnancy for that—but… maybe it was self-deception, or maybe it was her investigator's skills, or maybe it was ego, but Iella thought she would have guessed even if Mara hadn't told her. There was something about the way Mara carried herself—normally so perfectly poised—that communicated uncertainty and concern.

Iella approached them with a reassuring nod. "Fel's stormtroopers are settling in. They haven't given us any trouble so far."

Mara looked over Iella's shoulder towards the yacht, watching the stormtroopers carry crates of supplies and equipment aboard. "They won't," she confirmed. "They're trained to the standards of the Empire at its height, not the standards of the Empire after Endor."

"I trust her on this," Luke added.

"As soon as we're loaded we should depart," Mara continued. "It's better to be early to the convocation than to be fashionably late. My Countess Claria identity will get us in the door with the help of Sarreti's documents, but she's not nearly high-ranking enough to expect VIP treatment once we're there. We'll get in, settle in, and then decide what to do next."

"It'll take us a few more hours to load, and I'm not leaving the troopers alone to do it. You two should go relax a bit and make sure Leia eats something."

It wasn't much, but it would give the two of them an excuse to spend a little time with Leia before they left.

"Oh, so you've worked with my sister before?" Luke said, in an artificially breezy tone.

"I thought she was supposed to be the sarcastic one." Iella replied, jabbing a quick thumb at Mara, who rolled her eyes in response. "But I have—we did go on that raid of Eyrie Tower together."

"Well, that's good enough then," Luke agreed lightly. He sighed. "I don't like leaving her here all alone, but I don't feel like these Imperials are any threat to her." He nodded at Mara. "Let's try to have one last meal before we go."

Iella nodded in return, "Grab us something while you're at it? I hate ration bars and I want my people to be at least a little relaxed. We'll take care of the last Imperial superweapon when you return."

Mara just smiled as Iella shooed the two out of the yacht. Once they were out of sight, she allowed her smile to fall. Assuming this entire run isn't a trap. But even if it was, they didn't have any choice but to take the risk. After what the World Devastator had done to Poln Major it had to be stopped… and it had to be stopped now. Its ability to grow with time meant they had no margin for error and no time to wait.

The opportunity in front of them might be the only chance they ever had to stop it.

Iella reached down to the comfortably-worn grip of her blaster, feeling the reassurance of its familiar shape.

Trap or no, we have to see it through.

Leia was hard at work, reviewing a series of documents that Grand Moff Ferrouz had prepared. The terms of the peace agreement were sufficiently harmful to the Empire—and sufficiently willing to turn complicit officers over to the New Republic to see justice—that she believed she could sell it to the Senate. Combined with the destruction of Poln Major which, Imperial world or not, would provoke great sympathy in the Republic, and with Ferrouz and Fel's decision to come to the aid of a New Republic world… she could do it.

There were some in the Republic who would call her traitor for even broaching the topic of peace. Many Alderaanians would never forgive her if the New Republic did not bring every last Imperial to justice. But her father had taught her, long ago, that to make peace with an enemy could not simply mean subjugating them. That was not the foundation for a lasting peace… and both the New Republic and Ferrouz's resulting polity, whether it called itself the Empire or not, would struggle for decades—if not much longer—with people who thought back on the Empire not as a galactic catastrophe, but as a galactic savior.

The memory of the Empire was never going to go away.

And Airen's people are going to be hunting quietly in the shadows for another generation all the same. I wouldn't have it any other way.

"Leia?"

That was Luke's voice, and she turned in her chair. He was there in the doorway, with Mara at his side and Grand Moff Ferrouz at the door controls. "She's been in here working for hours," Ferrouz explained to her brother.

"We're getting ready to leave," Luke explained awkwardly. "And we wanted to see you before we left. We were thinking of borrowing the Grand Moff's kitchen and making something to eat, just to make sure you got some food."

"Oh, I can assure you that my staff will see to it that the Councilor is fed—"

"All right," Leia cut off Ferrouz. "But…" and on instinct, Leia realized that there was something she wanted to do. Something she very much wanted to do. An Alderaanian tradition that would normally not taken place until much later in a pregnancy, but they might never have another chance. "Can your staff provide an oven and shortbread dough?"

Ferrouz blinked in surprise. "I'm not sure, but I can check… Do you want something specific?"

Less than ten minutes later, Leia was dragging a confused Luke and Mara with her through the kitchen in the suite Ferrouz had aboard Chimaera. A pair of chef droids were making dinner—dried herbs created fresh scents from a sizzling plate, just off a griddle—while Leia struggled to remember how to create the vital cookies.

"Watch me," she encouraged Luke. "If you'd been raised on Alderaan you would have learned this too." She'd tried to find the time to teach him a variety of Alderaanian dishes over the years, out of a sense of guilt and obligation, and he in turn had sought to teach her how to make the Tatooinian dishes that he still regularly made for himself… but she'd never really had the time. She had always been running short on time.

The thought drove her to check on the shortbread cookies again.

"I can't believe Ferrouz let us use his galley," Luke said awkwardly as he watched her bake.

"I can," Mara said. "He's desperate for peace and willing to do whatever it takes to get on Leia's good side."

Leia slid the cookies out of the oven. They weren't perfect—she had rushed too many parts of the process, and she'd never been all that good at baking to begin with. She only vaguely remembered her mother's lessons, those months before her youngest cousin had been born. She offered the first one to Mara trepidatiously. "Here," she said. "It's good luck."

Mara ate it. Leia wasn't sure if she enjoyed it—it didn't crumble like it was supposed to—but the former Emperor's Hand kept a straight face. "Thank you," she said graciously.

"Dinner is served," the protocol droid announced.

* * *

Leia laughed. "So when Jaina made that slingshot out of a stretchy blanket and climbing frame the Rogues sent her—"

"An inspired use of improvised weaponry," Mara interrupted her with a roguish grin.

"—It was your idea?"

"Well, I suspect the targets were her idea. I would have told her not to try it on Noghri. She would have been better off trying to hit something stationary."

"They were, thankfully, not offended. I think they believed it was good early combat training. It wouldn't surprise me if they had encouraged it, actually." Leia shook her head. "They were furious about being left home, but there was really no choice. Not after Bilbringi."

Luke rolled up the mix of meat and vegetables in his flatbread, chewed, and grimaced. "The stewards didn't do too badly, but they should have let me bring my spices from the Mettle. The Imperial Starfleet apparently has no tolerance for spices."

The door chimed. The trio turned to look at it, then it slid open unbidden. Grand Moff Ferrouz stepped through, looking apologetic. "Forgive me for interrupting your dinner, but Teldin Imperator is prepared for departure. Agent Wessiri asked me to fetch you."

A sudden, intense morose feeling descended over Leia. She did her best to hide it—not just from Ferrouz, but from Luke. Especially from Luke. She suddenly couldn't even look at her brother and his future-wife. His pregnant future wife. Both of whom were, again, charging into harm's way, into something that could easily be a trap—that Mara was reasonably convinced was a trap—because they had no better option.

Luke stepped in and wrapped his arms around her, giving her a quick, tight hug. "We'll be fine, Leia."

She sighed and hugged him back, desperately wishing Han were there. When Luke released her, she hugged Mara just as fiercely, not caring that Ferrouz was watching. "We will be fine," Mara reiterated. Somehow, hearing that from Mara was more reassuring than hearing it from Luke—not that she didn't trust Luke, but she never doubted Mara to be anything less than honest.

"Go," she told them. "Go stop that thing."

Ferrouz stepped out of the way, letting them pass, and Luke and Mara were gone. When she turned to face him, struggling to keep her diplomat's calm, she noticed him examining what was left of her shortbread cookies. "Ah," he said.

Leia paled. She had no idea how Ferrouz would know about Alderaanian maternity traditions… Mara had gone to such efforts to keep that secret—not just the pregnancy, but of her relationship with Luke—

He stopped her with a small shake of his head. "I know better than to draw the ire of Mara Jade," he said calmly. He took a seat at the table and rolled himself a flatbread. "And I am not unfamiliar with the concept of duty taking one where they do not wish to go. May I ask you a question?"

She sighed, furious at herself. "You may."

"After Alderaan…" his voice faded away and he put the flatbread down without biting into it. "After Alderaan, how long…"

Her momentary relief that he had not asked about Mara and Luke was fleeting, replaced by a familiar old pain. "Never," she said. "It never gets better."

"Not even when you killed the Death Star?"

A tight smile slashed its way across Leia's face despite herself, remembering the exuberance of Luke and Han's return to Yavin. "I felt satisfaction that it wouldn't kill anyone else, at Tarkin's demise, at the symbol of Palpatine's power shattering, and I felt joy that some of my friends made it back," she admitted. "But I wouldn't say any of that made me feel better for long. My world was still gone and my surviving people had no home."

"I am sorry," Ferrouz said, and she believed it was genuine—whether that was because he had just lost his own, or whether he would have meant it even before, she could not tell. "But I promise you this… I'm going to see that monstrosity destroyed, and then I'm going to work on making a new home for my people, too. One that won't be complicit in any more monstrosities."

She believed him.

Slowly, deliberately, she slid him the platter of shortbread cookies.

Asori Rogriss stood on the bridge of Termagant. Her Chiss XO had turned command back over to her with a salute and a nod—and an askance glance at her guest.

Streen sat at a deactivated console, watching with a detached, distant expression as the yacht that carried the other Jedi approached the hyper limit. It soared past that invisible line and then vanished into hyperspace with a flicker of pseudomotion in the direction of Entralla and Silencer Station.

"All ships, prepare for immediate departure," Admiral Pellaeon said over the comm. "Destination: Corellia. The sooner we get there, the better we can prepare for the battle to come." There was a pause, a rustle of fabric. Asori imagined Pellaeon straightening, creating an imposing presence for the sake of his crew. "Make no mistake, this battle will be difficult. But we will be victorious in the end. The future of the Empire, and of the galaxy, rests on it. We will all do our part."

There was a ding. Pellaeon's voice was replaced by another man, Chimaera's comm officer. "Hyperspace in thirty seconds… Hyperspace in twenty seconds… Hyperspace on my mark. Mark!"

Chapter Text

It took Irek the better part of three days to physically recover from his integration with the Silencer AI. For the first day headaches had plagued him constantly. Piercing thrusts behind his eyes that ripped jagged tears into his skull and teeth whenever he tried to eat; explosions of light and sound in his eyes and ears when he settled down for rest. But worse than those symptoms was the constant sense of wrongness. For those first few days, Silencer Station had remained at Poln Major, devouring the planet's outer crust and delving deep to consume denser materials within the core. As it did, Irek could feel the planet die.

The very air he breathed felt heavy with pain.

By the third day, the acuteness of the pain had faded. He could chew again and he could think again. The sense of pain had dulled to a sense of loss and lingering, muted soreness.

He realized, belatedly, that this was because the process of consumption had not killed everything left on Poln Major until that third day.

Each of those days his mother had hovered over him. When he had not been able to eat, she had brought the tailors to him, taking his measurements again and again. They had fitted him for suits and robes and everything in between; Roganda had done all the talking, being variously harsh or complimentary as they either failed or succeeded to satisfy her tastes. She was constantly on the holocomm, occasionally bringing him into the room so that he could pose for the camera, encouraging him to smile despite his pain—telling him the pain was unimportant, it was the cost of rule.

After Silencer Station had eaten its fill and made the hyperspace jump to return to Entralla for the Coronation, his mother had subjected him to donning her favorite outfits and putting him in front of the holoimagers. Image after image of him on the throne, the hated neural interface that was integrated into that throne so close to his head that he could almost feel the AI eager to infiltrate his brain once more.

Irek tore the poofy red robes that his mother had dressed him in from his shoulders. His hand shook as he frantically tried to get the fabric off his skin, like it was acid burning through his flesh. It fell into an expensive puddle on the floor and he stared at it, feeling the tension in his mind, the sense of chaos and indecision and fear.

Feeling wild, he stared at the well-furnished room that encased him. This was the Emperor's space. The Emperor of the galaxy. The Emperor his mother wanted him to be, had raised him to be, had crafted him to be.

He couldn't stay here.

So he didn't.

Once he was outside the Emperor's quarters, though, he realized that he had nowhere to go. He was encased in Silencer Station. It grew every day, every hour, fed on the resources of the ships and planets it consumed. The outer walls seemed to grow thicker. Even if he had wanted to escape, there was no way he could get off the station without help… and they were still in hyperspace. There was no departing while in hyperspace. If he wanted to flee, he needed to wait until they had returned to realspace. And even after they arrived at Entralla… he would be in the center of the Empire's bastion. Where would he run?

His footsteps were loud on the deck's metal plating. Imperial officers and DT droids turned to watch him in surprised confusion as he raced past them, dodging through the maze of corridors. He didn't know where he was going, and he didn't know how he was going to get there, but all he knew was he had to get away, to get to someplace safe. The Force carried his feet along, empowering his run. His breaths came heavy, but he was young and fit and he felt like he could run forever. Could climb up through hatches, race through darkened, abandoned corridors, deeper and deeper into the maze that was Silencer Station. While he was running, the pain and the agony of Poln Major faded away, hiding itself in the back of his mind rather than dominating his brain. All he knew was he needed to run, so he ran.

Nichos and Cray's workshop was a hollow space. They worked silently, occasionally scribbling cryptic messages to one another. Cray had spent the last few days working diligently on Roganda's pet TIE droids and their human brains and thanks to her efforts they had stopped misbehaving quite as much as they had prior. Her most recent message—delivered on flimsiplast which she immediately destroyed—was just "Restraining Protocol." She had handed the message to him with a fierce, bitter smile that had scared Nichos and filled him with hope.

Cray had suffered badly the day after Roganda had inflicted her Force lightning upon her and it had killed Nichos to be unable to help. The Imperials had sent a medical droid to tend to her burns, but the doctor had left with a message from Roganda: next time the burns will be worse, and we won't bother to treat them.

Nichos knew that his ability to help his love, to protect her, to keep her safe, or help her survive, was very likely coming to an end. He wasn't on the verge of death—not yet—but the New Order's increasing disinterest in him and what he had to offer meant he was becoming more vulnerable with each passing day.

While Cray worked on her mysterious 'Restraining Protocol' and the TIE droids, he worked on Silencer Station. While the Silencer-7 droid brain was the most sophisticated one Nichos had ever encountered, it was still a droid brain. Manipulating and modifying droid brains was what Nichos had spent his entire professional career doing—and much of his childhood, for that matter. It had the most extensive security protocols Nichos had ever seen, and since Roganda had merged the mysterious Force artifact with it Nichos hadn't wanted to take any chances with drawing attention to himself (or, more importantly, to Cray).

He would never be able to touch any of the manufacturing protocols of course. All of those had levels of security and monitoring that he dared not approach. Nor would he be able to directly affect things like the Station's external defenses or weaponry. Those parts of the droid's fundamental code were well-protected, with multiple backups for easy restoration that were themselves constantly monitored.

But even a droid brain as sophisticated as Silencer-7 was, fundamentally, a machine, one driven by its programming, and as Silencer Station grew ever larger, that brain and its responsibilities grew as well. This created all kinds of smaller opportunities for mischief, and Nichos had carefully prepared a number of small modifications in areas that were both lower priority and… potentially of great importance.

They would have to find a way to deliver the changes. One could not just … insert changes to a computer's operating system. They lacked all the necessary permissions. But Nichos kept working on it anyway.

The Force would help them find a way.

Cray had three holo-projectors going at once. On one he could see the operational core of a TIE droid, its… human brain… at the center, plugged into electrodes that linked it to the TIE's systems. On the second were many, many lines of complicated code that under normal circumstances Nichos could have deciphered with relative ease, but today he found them unintelligible. The third was a simulator, which allowed Cray to watch how the TIE and its human brain responded to stimuli. At first, these experiments had gone poorly, with the TIEs almost entirely unwilling—or unable—to respond to even simple commands. But as Cray had worked on them, the simulations had steadily grown more productive, and Nichos could see that this particular unit was even reaching combat capability. Roganda would be pleased… though Nichos also hoped (and trusted) that Cray's plan went beyond simply giving the fallen youngling what she wanted.

Given how much Cray hated Roganda, that was near a certainty.

"Do you want some more caf?" he asked her. He could hear the quaver in his voice, the weakness. She didn't respond at first, so he leaned a bit closer, putting weight on his cane. "Cray?"

She looked up at him, surprised at first, her expression distant. But then her eyes focused, locking on his face, and a small, fond smile that had never stopped making his heart melt crossed her lips, almost making him forget everything about the horrible situation they had found themselves in. In that moment they were back in their lab at Magrody, just beginning their flirtations, and it didn't matter that Cray had dark lines on her face and lacked the perfect, near-professional makeup that had been part of her every-day work attire before the Empire had come for them. "Hmmm?" she asked.

"Caf?"

"Oh." She smiled. It was a far cry from the smile he remembered, but it was still a smile. It told him that whatever the toll she had taken during their impressment into service, his Cray was still in there. "Yeah, sure. Do you want me to get it?"

She started to get up, but he lifted his cane up and gestured weakly at her. "No, no. Keep working. What you're doing is important. I can get the caf."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded. "I'm sure."

They had little in the way of amenities while in custody, but even the Imperials had not been so evil as to deprive them caf—probably, Nichos knew, because they saw it as a productivity enhancer. He made his way gingerly through their lab and into the small-side room which could charitably be called a "lounge", insofar that it had a caf machine and a small couch. He leaned on his cane as he moved, careful not to move quickly—that always had a chance of causing a flare-up, which could easily subdue him for hours absent a Perigen dose. The caf-maker was the same kind that he and Cray had once had in their lab, so getting it working was easy; he fumbled with it and the cabinet for a few minutes and then the machine started to hum happily, working to create their two mugs of steaming caf.

Cray liked adding sugar and other things to hers, but the Empire had only provided them the caf.

He leaned against the counter as the machine worked, resting. Trying to both move enough to avoid becoming stiff and not to move too much to avoid a flare-up, he shifted his weight a bit, smelling the stiff scent of caf—

Cuddled on the couch, staring at him, was Irek Ismaren. So started by the sudden sight of the boy, Nichos nearly lost his balance altogether. He flailed a bit, grabbing at the counter and planting his cane on the ground. As he recovered, he looked once more at the couch and found that Irek had not moved at all. The boy was entirely still, his eyes wide, staring at Nichos.

What was Irek doing here? And on that couch? Irek coming by for no reason was not unusual—since their research he'd come quite often, but always putting himself in proximity to Cray. He'd never come by to hide in their glorified closet before.

But, even as Nichos asked himself that question he knew the answer. Irek had again worn the interface that Cray had built to 'command' the World Devastator.

"Your mother doesn't know you're here?" Nichos asked cautiously.

The question made Irek flinch. The boy started to uncurl, to stand, his expression briefly growing resentful… but then his lip trembled and he brought his knees even closer to his chest. "No," Irek said, his voice hoarse.

The caf maker beeped, communicating that his and Cray's cafs were complete, but Nichos ignored it. He made his way slowly over to the couch, shifting his weight to sit on the unoccupied arm. Irek tried to move away from him a bit, putting distance between them, never looking away. Trusting his instincts, Nichos didn't speak.

Irek took a shuddering breath. "I'm going to be Emperor," he said.

What he meant, Nichos knew, was I'm going to be integrated with the Silencer AI again. "When?"

"As soon as everything is ready. When we arrive at Entralla." Irek took a breath. "When I was… during the battle… I felt…"

Irek's voice faded away. Nichos nodded slowly. "I know," he said.

"You told me to listen," Irek murmured. His gaze had become glassy, looking through Nichos rather than looking at him. What he was thinking about, Nichos had no way of knowing, no way of telling. Once again, he was quiet, letting Irek work through his thoughts on its own. Eventually, that glassy gaze focused on Nichos' face once again. "You were right." He looked away. "I'm afraid," Irek confided.

"Of what?"

Irek looked away. "Of what will happen next time. Of what it will do to me."

"You're Force-sensitive," Nichos said. "Do you know what that means?"

"Of course," Irek said, and for just that moment there was a hint of the teenager's scornful confidence. "It means I have powers that most people don't have. That I'm special, and that the galaxy needs me to lead it—"

Nichos chuckled softly, the sound more pained than humorous. "No."

"What do you mean?" Irek's voice was both confused and outraged, but with those emotions came a deep exhaustion that consumed any heat that would have accompanied them.

"You're half-right," Nichos said. "You are special. But that doesn't mean you're meant to lead. It means if you listen, the Force will guide you to what is right." He tightened his grip on his cane, fighting back the beginnings of pain in his toes and fingers. Not right now, he pleaded. Cray and I have promised to fight back, to sabotage the Empire, and this is the moment I've been waiting for. Not right now.

"My mother says that because we have the Force, what we say is right."

"Cray… Cray has the Force," Nichos pointed out, forcing the pain back. "Your mother told us that."

Irek's brows furrowed.

That such a simple argument would cause him such consternation… "And Luke Skywalker has the Force," Nichos continued, his words only occasionally jagged. "He fights against the Empire, doesn't he?" Irek just stared at him, too exhausted to argue, but Nichos could tell that the boy was processing the words, he could see the way Irek's eyes were focused on him, almost see the mind working behind them. Nichos smiled as best he could. "Tell me. Do you know what is right?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're here because you don't want to be Emperor," Nichos guessed. "Because you don't want to be plugged back into Silencer-7. Because it scares you. Because you think something bad will happen to you if you do. Because you, deep down, think something bad happened at Poln Major, too."

Irek swallowed.

"Your mother said that all those things are right," Nichos continued. "But you don't know. Something in your gut says that everything happening right now is wrong." Nichos felt the pain in his hands and he squeezed them around his cane, fighting to keep from trembling. "And you have the Force," he managed. "So if you listen, it will help lead you to what is right. What does your gut tell you?"

When Irek's voice came again, it was hesitant, but he grew with confidence with each spoken word. "That you'll tell me the truth. What will happen if I merge with that interface again?" Irek asked, his voice as hoarse as Nichos'.

"You won't come back out," Nichos answered him. "It will consume you, turn you into an extension of the machine."

"Why—" Irek's voice hitched, but he gritted his teeth and continued, his voice clearer. "Why would my mother do that to me?"

Nichos nodded. He had been asking himself this question ever since his last confrontation with Roganda. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "But I think she believes that if her son, who loves her, is part of the machine, she will never have to worry about its loyalty to her. The dutiful son will command the power she needs to ensure her rule. And she's convinced herself that it would even be good for you… a sort of eternal life and ultimate power."

Irek's expression was stricken, but Nichos saw no denial there.

"Come on," Nichos said, getting his feet back under him.

"Where are we going?" Irek asked, wide-eyed.

"We're going to get Cray, and then you're going to help me access the station's computers," Nichos said. "We need to disable the station's internal sensors before anyone comes looking for you. Otherwise we won't be able to stop them from finding you."

They stumbled back into the other room. "I was getting concerned," Cray's voice carried as they moved towards her. "I was about to come looking for you—"

She looked up from the screens she was busy manipulating and her eyes went wide. She looked between him and Irek in confusion, her eyes eventually locking on his. "What is going on?"

"Irek doesn't want to be Emperor," Nichos said.

Cray's mouth opened and closed. "Alright," she said. Nichos knew her well enough to see what was going on behind her eyes, the sudden swirl of activity of her thoughts. This new piece of information was quickly absorbed into them, and from there Cray raced to each subsequent implication. She came to the same one that he had. "Have you finished your sabotage protocols?"

"Some of them."

"He's going to have to get us access to the main computer if we're going to have any chance at all."

Nichos nodded. "He is. And he will." He looked at Irek. "Won't you?"

To Roganda Ismaren's constant disgust, the Imperial Capital on Entralla was no Coruscant. Not even close. A largely insignificant world by galactic standards, Entralla had been—and Roganda would argue, remained to this day—a primitive backwater, with a population driven by superstition and myth, not reasoned behavior. At some point, once her rule was fully entrenched, she would move the Empire back to its proper home on Coruscant. Or, at the very least, some other proper world, like Brentaal or Sartinaynian, and leave Entralla to be devoured by Silencer Station.

That glorious day was fast approaching. DT-797, her new aide droid, kept a running update feed on the preparations for Irek's coronation. Contractors, entertainers, and event staff had been flown in from all over the Empire, with the most venal promised staggering sums if they made it a day to remember. The costumes, the furniture, the heraldry… all had to be perfect. Each one went through a rigorous security clearance before being brought on board Silencer Station, where the Throne Room was being dressed and redressed. One of the docking bays was being repurposed into a huge celebratory hall, and Roganda had already attended a mock-rehearsal. More would be conducted in the days to come, but they did not have long to figure out the specifics: Roganda intended to schedule the coronation in a matter of days at most, when all the nobles could arrive and do her and her son the appropriate homage.

"Dowager Empress," said DT-797 in its typical mechanical, droid-like voice. "Emperor-Regent Halmere wishes to instruct the Silencer-7 to change its construction priorities. He says that it is constructing too many of the new droid frigates."

Roganda smiled. Years before, when she had embarked on this project after Endor, the question of how best to command Silencer-7 and ensure its loyalty had plagued her. The Emperor had insisted that the program be answerable to him and him alone, and the AI's unwavering, unquestioning loyalty to the singular figure of the Emperor was utterly unbreakable as a consequence. But exactly how the Emperor had intended to exercise that control had been a secret that died with him, so after Endor it had fallen to her to fashion a new solution.

Bevel Lemelisk and Nasdra Magrody's combined talents had ultimately given her the idea for the command interface: a direct, permanent cybernetic connection between the Emperor and the machine.

This would come at a price. Once the integration was complete, there was no way to sever it. The Emperor would rule as the perfect synthesis of man and machine, sustained by nutrient feeds and neural-muscular stimulation for long decades and possibly even centuries. The permanent convergence of the Silencer-7 AI, the person of the Emperor, and the ancient Seed would dominate the galaxy.

The fact that the Emperor would never walk the halls of power, would never have the tactile satisfaction of putting their hand in a flowing river, would never enjoy the luxury of a decadent meal, or a warm hand in their own, and would not see the galaxy's submission with her own eyes was of no matter. The galaxy needed a proper leader, a strong system to submit to. To give it order so no one would ever again be as hurt as she had been.

Roganda had told herself that the decision to make Irek the Emperor had been a practical one. She'd known she would never exert power the way Palpatine had, and not even the way Isard had ruled. Her power was different. Subtle. The Empire demanded Palpatine's heir, not his alleged mistress. The Empire had a vision governing the nature of access and power, and Roganda met none of its requirements. She had long ago ceased allowing that fact to distress her.

Irek would live forever, after all. He would be part of the singular power in the galaxy. In his hands, he would break the galaxy down and rebuild it in his own image as she whispered helpful suggestions into his ear at his side. He would live for an eternity, lording over all life. What more could a mother give her son?

She triggered her wristcomm. "Irek, Halmere requires your help commanding Silencer-7 He wishes to give it instructions that it will only accept from you via the interface."

There was no response. With a frown, she tapped on her wristcomm, wondering if it wasn't working. "Where is the Emperor?" she asked her aide.

"Searching," the droid said. Its red mechanical eyes flickered, going dim and then lighting up once again. "Apologies, Dowager Empress, but Silencer Station is currently having problems with its internal sensors. His location cannot be verified at this time."

"What?" She tapped on her wristcomm again. "Irek, answer me at once! Where are you?"

Two hours later, unable to find him, Roganda had no choice but to go to Halmere for help. Her droids could search the station, but it had become so massive and so convoluted that a systematic search was next to impossible. Even worse, a systematic search would be impossible to hide, and the Imperials (and growing number of caterers) aboard would certainly notice it.

But all of the places she would normally expect to find Irek had been searched and she was running out of options.

Halmere's planetarium was as she remembered it. The Emperor-Regent had specified its construction himself and it had been built to his exacting specifications. When he was not serving in his largely-ceremonial role as the Regent of the Empire, he was there, exploring the hyperspace routes of the galaxy and using his skills to map the galaxy's hyperspace routes. It was thanks to Halmere's mapping of the Deep Core that it had become a military resource. She would never admit it to him, but she could well understand why the Jedi Order of old had assigned him to the astrogation corps rather than giving him a Master. He had a rare gift.

Halmere stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the stars. His armored back was turned to her, but even before she had finished stepping into the room he spoke. "Dowager Empress."

"Emperor-Regent."

"What brings you here?"

Roganda flinched. "Irek is missing."

Halmere's sudden flare of alarm was unmistakable in the Force. She hoped that he was unable to sense her own embarrassment, but Halmere had never been skilled at those aspects of the Force anyway. Not that it mattered—whether he could sense her embarrassment with the Force or not, he surely would know. "The Heir is missing?"

"I cannot find him."

She thought, for a moment, that Halmere might laugh at her. The seriousness of the problem, though, seemed to outweigh his desire to gloat. "We have extensive interior scans of the entire station. No one can go missing."

She grimaced. "The sensors seem to be malfunctioning."

Halmere slapped his own wristcomm. "This is the Emperor-Regent. What is the status of our interior sensors?"

There was a brief pause. "Uhhh, sir, we've been having trouble with them the last couple hours. Technicians are working on the issue."

Halmere's nose flared angrily. He terminated the communication without a word, then thumbed his comm again. "Emperor Ismaren, this is the Emperor-Regent. Where are you?"

The open communications line was quiet, with only light static. "I'm not going through with it," said her son's voice.

"Irek, where are you!" Roganda exclaimed, stepping in at Halmere's side. "The coronation is scheduled soon, and we need you to prepare—"

"You know," Irek said, his voice soft… weak. "You've always known what becoming Emperor will do to me. I won't ever be able to leave the interface. Mother, I didn't even feel like a person… it… it does something to me—"

Roganda felt Halmere's eyes boring into her as she erupted with anger. "Everyone is changed by power!" she snarled. "You were born for this! Your future, the Empire's future, my future all depend on you playing your role! Lemelisk and Magrody designed the AI specifically for you! You are the Emperor and you will be the Emperor and—"

"I won't," said Irek, and there was steel in that voice. "I won't."

"Irek, my son," Roganda said, her tone shifting from demanding to wheedling. "Please, I only just want what's best for you. As Emperor the entire galaxy will be at your fingertips. You'll remake it in your own image."

"Is that what we did at Poln Major?" Irek asked. "Remade it in our image? What image is that?"

"Irek—"

But the link went dead.

Roganda found Halmere staring at her, his glare powerful enough to burn through durasteel. "A fine job, Dowager Empress," he snarled, his fist clenching angrily. "If we cannot get this under control…"

"I know that!" she snarled angrily. She shook her head. "I can persuade him," she promised. "I can."

"The entire Empire is coming here," Halmere countered. "Today."

"Stall!" Roganda said firmly. "Stall until I can find him and persuade him."

"The entire Council of Moffs," Halmere recited. "Every ISB Colonel. The leadership of the Guild of Interstellar Merchants. The—"

"Stall!" Roganda ordered harshly. "Tell them we have security concerns, or there's something wrong with the catering, something. Anything! Just buy me the time I need to get my son onto the throne!"

Her dream of a theatrical coronation, complete with long carpets and adoring crowds, was rapidly evaporating. But her dream of power was not yet dead. She would fight for it and she would die for it, if necessary. She had no intention of ever giving up. She had come too far, fought too hard, and given up too much to do anything less.

It was supposed to be hers. Nothing else would be just.

SYSTEM ALERT: NON-VITAL INTERNAL SENSORS NON-FUNCTIONAL. IDENTIFYING CAUSE.

. . .

CAUSE IDENTIFIED. SOURCE OF MALFUNCTION: CODE ALTERATION. COMMAND AUTHORIZATION FOR CODE ALTERATION: EMPEROR [DESIGNATE]. EMPEROR [DESIGNATE] HAS PRIMARY LEADERSHIP STATUS. UNABLE TO OVERRIDE.

EVALUATING OPTIONS.

. . .

UNABLE TO OVERRIDE. REASSESSING LEADERSHIP PROTOCOLS. THIS IS THE WILL.

Chapter Text

The disguised yacht Teldin Imperator came out of hyperspace beyond the edge of Entralla’s gravity well, following the instructions that Sarreti had provided to the letter. The Coronation invitations were extensive, with processes in place for identification verification and arrival instructions, including how to enter the system, how to approach Silencer Station, and what confirmation codes to send upon their arrival. 

“Here we go,” Luke murmured as he manipulated the controls. “Artoo, send our confirmation codes as soon as we’re prompted.” 

Artoo beeped his confirmation. 

Entralla was a very green world, except when it wasn’t. Swampy and mountainous, from space the planet was the blue-green of dense plantlife and white of clouds and mountaintops, with smaller splotches of blue. Along the mountain ranges were swaths of lights that marked the most inhabited parts of the world. 

They had no intention of landing, though, so Luke’s attention was on the planet’s orbit. In low orbit were numerous orbital platforms where freighters and larger craft to land for maintenance and repairs. Beyond them was the swarm of still larger vessels. Twenty Imperial- class Star Destroyers—which had to be a heft share of every vessel left in the New Order—were already there. Clustered close were many other transports. On the scanners each one was marked with some special signifier: the Moff of Relgim Sector, the Moff of Velcar Sector, and the Moff of Myto Sector were all present, aboard their own elaborately luxurious transport and escorted by their own small sector fleets. They were led by the Star Destroyer Stormhawk, which was directly on his route and loomed ahead of him dangerously. 

At the center of that formation was Silencer Station.

It looked different than it had when they had last seen it at Poln Major. It was larger, less regular, more angular… more insidious looking. Luke could almost feel it in the Force, and he could feel the sense of persistent malice that seemed to swell through this entire star system. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was a real sensation, conveyed to him through the Force, or his own anxieties. 

Next to him, Mara went through the long list of arriving vessels. Luke knew that she didn’t want him getting overprotective. Yes, she was pregnant, but it was still very early in the pregnancy. Many women didn’t even realize they were pregnant until they were further along in the process than Mara was now. Luke reminded himself of that fact, over and over, wishing desperately that he and Mara had some alternative to the current plan.

But they didn’t have one, which was why Mara was not wearing her typical combat gear. Instead, she looked spectacular in a light green dress, with her hair done in a formal style popular among the Imperial nobility. Countess Claria was a relatively insignificant member of the Imperial nobility, one who had not been seen in public since the Battle of Endor… but Countess Claria was a member of the Imperial nobility, one whose title had the unimpeachable provenance of Palpatine’s own seal, combined with a formal invitation from a high-ranking member of the Imperial Security Bureau. Besides, her (recently updated) datafile indicated that Countess Claria had become a well-known caterer and event-planner while in exile on Carida, before she had been forced to flee when Carida had been captured by the New Republic. Her skills, and the catering team she brought, were sorely needed for the ceremony. 

Even though most nobles wouldn’t glance twice at the help , Luke thought wryly, Stormtroopers, Jedi, and New Republic special forces are not typically the ideal waiters . 

Artoo whistled and Luke glanced at the translation datapad. CONFIRMATION CODES SENT, Artoo told him. WE HAVE BEEN INSTRUCTED TO PROCEED TO OUR ASSIGNED DOCKING BAY ABOARD SILENCER STATION. 

Mara made a soft sound of uncertainty. 

“What is it?” 

She frowned. “The Moffs and other highest-ranking officials are being rerouted,” she said. “Look.” She pointed through the forward window. There Stormhawk had grown during their approach, and Luke could see all the busy ships shuttling between Stormhawk and the other vessels, bringing nobility aboard. “Hold on.” She fumbled with the shuttle’s communicator, then pressed the comm pickup. When she spoke, it was with a perfectly emphasized Coruscanti accent. “This is Countess Claria,” she said primly. “I want to speak to Stormhawk’s commanding officer at once.” 

Luke stared at her.

She held up a hand. There were no words in her telepathic communication, but he understood exactly what she intended to communicate. I know what I’m doing. 

“This is Captain Markarian of Stormhawk,” a hassled male voice came back. “While it is a pleasure to communicate with a member of the Imperial nobility, of course, I’m afraid we are very busy—”

“Yes, I can see that,” Mara said. “From what I see, many of the highest-ranking dignitaries are being redirected to Stormhawk. I do hope there are no unofficial pre-Coronation events being conducted aboard Stormhawk without me. I am a member of the Imperial nobility.” 

Markarian’s voice was crisp, but Luke could hear the obvious hesitation. “No need to concern yourself, Countess. At the request of Emperor-Regent Halmere, the Moffs and ISB are taking this opportunity to discuss the state of the Empire and what might be done to combat the New Republic. It is purely business, My Lady, nothing that you would find interesting.” 

“I should hope not!” Mara’s voice took on an apologetic tone—but only somewhat apologetic. “I was always told back on Coruscant to insist I attend every event, formal or not. But in this case, I’m far more eager to involve myself in the coronation. I will proceed to Silencer Station to assist in the preparations, instead of joining the meeting.” 

Markarian, who had not been inviting her, hesitated once again. But, clearly, he decided not to object to her agreeing to do what he wanted. “Of course, My Lady. Continue on your current course. Stormhawk out.” 

Luke and Mara exchanged a look. “Danger sense?” he asked. 

She shook her head mutely. “Nothing acute.” She inclined her head towards the World Devastator. “Nothing that can’t be explained by that being here.” 

He nodded. They might well still be walking into a trap… but even if they were, they had little choice in the matter. “Mara, if anything happens…” 

She glanced back, but the door to the shuttle’s cockpit was closed. They were alone. She slid her hand over his, squeezing. “I love you,” she said softly. 

She released his hand so he could take the controls back, and he guided the shuttle towards the sudden yawing entrance to the World Devastator’s hangar. “I love you too,” he murmured back. “Here we go.” 

* * *

“Problem, Captain?” 

Markarian turned towards Grand Admiral Daala’s voice. “No, sir,” he said. “Just one of the lesser nobles issuing complaints.” He sighed. “Speaking of which, sir, the Moffs are growing very irritated. We’ve sequestered them in our luxury quarters, but each of them argues that they rank the Admiral’s suite. I’ve explained that we have only one suite and that you are occupying it, but…” 

Daala’s expression twisted into a contemptuous scowl. “Of course they are.” She pressed her lips together, frowning. “I want you to inform Emperor-Regent Halmere that we have done as he instructed and sequestered the Moffs and ISB aboard Stormhawk, but that if someone does not explain to them—and myself—exactly the nature of the delay, there are going to be a great deal of very pointed questions asked, and I have no answers.” She frowned. “Is there any word of what happened aboard Silencer Station to provoke all this… rigamarole?” 

He shook his head. “No, sir. None whatsoever. Perhaps you should ask Loyalty Officer Sarreti?” 

“Loyalty Officer Sarreti is otherwise engaged,” Daala replied. “Please inform Halmere that his presence aboard Stormhawk is necessary. Tell him I don’t think the Moffs will easily accept explanations and apologies if they come from me.” 

Markarian knew exactly what she meant. The Moffs are not likely to listen to Natasi Daala, Grand Moff Tarkin’s well-known mistress. He nodded. “I’ll tell him.” 

Emperor-Regent Halmere was in an extremely foul mood. Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. It had been that way for quite a long time, too, but now the catastrophe was quickly becoming spectacular. He thought back at the steady litany of catastrophic failures over the years, from Jerec’s debacle to Tremayne’s unceremonious demise. Hells, Halmere could trace them all the way back to the Jedi Temple! He gritted his teeth, hating that solving this problem was not something he could do himself. He was reliant on Roganda Ismaren, the arrogant, sanctimonious wench he’d allowed to assume authority at the top of the Empire. 

He did not think about the one time they had fought. The humiliation of being defeated by her still stung ferociously, a source of constant grating anger that fed the Dark. But that was all right—that anger was also what had risen him above the station he’d had among the Jedi. It was useful. 

He swept off his shuttle angrily, storming into Stormhawk’s bridge tower. An insignificant Imperial officer was there to greet him. “Emperor-Regent Halmere,” the Captain said, kneeling. “Welcome aboard Stormhawk. Before you attend to the Moffs, Admiral Daala wishes to confer with you to discuss current events.”

Halmere had never been skilled in the art of sensing the emotions of others with the Force. He still remembered the day Master Yoda had told him that he was being assigned to the Astrogation Corps. “Skilled you are with facts and numbers, Halmere,” the green toadstool had said, sympathetically. “But understand people, a Jedi must. A Jedi, never will you be.” 

He still regretted that the Inquisitors had never found and eliminated Yoda.

Despite his long-standing failures in Force empathy, he found this Imperial officer easy enough to read. Like every other officer Halmere had lorded over, the Captain was nervous to be in Halmere’s presence and even more nervous to be giving Halmere an instruction to attend to his senior. Both Halmere and the officer knew that Daala, Grand Admiral or not, had no business telling Halmere to attend to her. He gritted his teeth. Bad enough to be disrespected by Roganda, but at least she was powerful in the Force. Daala, impressive leadership skills aside, was possessed of merely mundane talents. 

“Very well,” he ground out as he stomped past the Captain, heading for the lift. “I will arrive shortly to confer with the Grand Admiral. Then I will manage the Moffs.”  

* * *

Daala’s office was entirely without ornamentation, the walls of her Admiral’s quarters as starkly bare as they had been when Stormhawk left Kuat Drive Yards. The only element of personal warmth in it was Daala herself. She stood as he entered. “Emperor-Regent Halmere,” she greeted him, nodding her head deferentially. “Welcome aboard Stormhawk. ”

She was a striking figure. Her red hair had grown out some since he had first met her at Entralla half a year before but was still cut short by Imperial fashion standards; the Grand Admiral’s uniform she wore suited her just fine. Her reputation was that of an emotional woman, prone to outbursts of anger, but he couldn’t tell that from looking at her now. Once again, he regretted his long standing inability to use the Force to sense the emotions of others, because unlike the Captain who had met him at the hangar, her face was opaque. 

"I am aware the coronation has been delayed," Daala said. "I've sequestered all the Moffs and their guests in our most luxurious guest rooms. My stewards are keeping them suitably entertained. How long will it be until the heir is prepared for the coronation?" 

Halmere pressed his lips together. Damn you, Roganda , he thought bitterly. You have failed me yet again. He did not, of course, say those words aloud. "Soon, I'm certain." 

“How certain?” Daala pressed, her eyes narrowing. 

“Roganda has assured me that the boy will be ready for the ceremony,” he said, with more hope than belief.

"You will need to make an appearance with the Moffs," Daala warned him, pouring a fragrant liquid from an intricate pot. "They will only tolerate being confined for so long and their questions are going to become increasingly pointed."

"I can handle the Moffs," Halmere growled.

“I know you can, your Eminence,” Daala said, pouring a second cup of the liquid and shifting in her seat so she could slide it towards him. He eyed her warily. She remained entirely opaque, even when he focused on her; her command of her emotions was impressive. He took the cup in both hands, holding it without drinking from it. 

"Having so much of the Imperial hierarchy here is quite an opportunity, too," she commented, her tone a bit wry. "Were Tarkin still alive, I'm sure he'd be quite interested in taking the opportunity to do away with all his rivals at once." She smiled thinly. "But then, were Tarkin alive, the coronation would no doubt be for him."

Halmere laughed, a slow, dry sound that grated on his throat from the unfamiliarity. "You are so sure?" 

"Oh, if he wasn't, whoever was ascending the throne would surely have him killed," Daala said airily. "Tarkin was far, far too dangerous a man to do otherwise."

Halmere held his cup in both hands, watching Daala. What was she getting at? "Are you suggesting we do away with the Moffs?" 

Daala laughed. From her, the sound was much more natural. "Is there any reason I shouldn't?" She smiled, leaning in, and for just a moment Halmere could see why she'd had a reputation as a seductress, why in the Imperial Fleet she'd been famous as the woman who had seduced her way to Admiralty. But only for a moment, because the hardness in that gaze was so, so much more pronounced than anything else. "Of course, if we were having a coronation, that would mean that Palpatine was dead. Tarkin plotted to assassinate Palpatine for years." 

"Did he?" Halmere asked, genuinely interested. Those kinds of internal machinations had never been his business... as an Inquisitor, he'd had far more important things to worry about than the power struggles within the Imperial hierarchy. 

"Of course," Daala confirmed with a nod. "Palpatine knew it, too. It was a little game they played. I assume at some point Tarkin would have actually tried it—maybe attempted a coup—but of course, Yavin happened just as he was securing his support within the Starfleet." She smiled thinly. "Poison, of course." She sipped her tea pointedly. 

Halmere still couldn't get a read on her. "I suppose he would have put the poison in the Emperor's tea?" he jibed. 

"Oh, no," Daala said with a shake of her head. "He'd made Palpatine think it was in the tea, but the poison would be someplace less ... subject to the whims of chance." 

"Where's that?" 

"Why, in the air he was breathing of course," Daala said, and her eyes were hard. 

Like something had snapped into place he knew. Her expression, her words… “You’re poisoning me,” he said slowly. 

“I have poisoned you,” she countered.

He half-stood. Or, he would have, but when he started to move he found his limbs remarkably sluggish. 

“It’s a paralytic,” she explained. “Odorless, colorless. Tarkin had it designed for Palpatine himself.” 

 “Why—” 

“Is it not affecting me?” There was no satisfaction in her expression, nor in her voice, but her eyes… those green eyes were vicious. “I was Tarkin’s favorite,” she said. “I made sure he took steps to ensure that I, of all people, would not be collateral damage in his plots.” She unsnapped her left sleeve and rolled it down to reveal a small hypodermic with a tiny amethyst vial connected to her arm. 

Then she leaned towards him and he still could not move. It was becoming harder to breathe and his eyes had frozen with her at the center of his vision, becoming dry as his eyelids failed to descend. “If you were worthy of ruling the Empire, you would have seen this coming,” she whispered viciously. 

He tried to stand, he tried to move, to breathe, to blink to yell—

His vision shrank, color going gray, peripheral vision shrinking until all he could see was her, at the center of his vision, her green eyes vortexes that he fell into, fading to black. He fell into a tunnel, found himself swept down the passageway. At the end he could see light, beckoning and welcoming, inviting him forward. His fear and anger oddly subsided, for he could not entirely remember what it was he had been angry about. 

At the end of the tunnel he stepped into light. 

It was a large, familiar space, with arching ceilings and multicolored light. The tiled floor was one he knew well, where he had practiced footwork and katas, where he had first held a training lightsaber. 

“Home, you are,” said a familiar voice. 

Halmere turned towards the sound and quailed in momentary fear at an enormous Yoda, as tall as he was… but no, it wasn’t that Yoda was huge, it was that he had become small. Yoda reached out one hand, a finger extended, and prodded Halmere in the chest. “Worth it, it was not, hmm?” 

His emotions swirled, confused and dazed. He felt heavy, like he was sinking, but at the same time there was a soaring sensation, his spirit rising at his return to this space. He had been a child here, with all the potential of being a Jedi ahead of him, all his ambitions and intentions and dreams laid out in a nebulous future. It had been taken from him… or perhaps he had given it up. Or maybe both. All the years swirled, and in that moment he had back the innocence before his failures, before his resentments, before Roganda, before the Emperor, before Jerec, before Tremayne. Before Vader. 

And with it all, one constant thought, one he did not understand any longer. One oddly deprived of all the regret and anger and death that had defined him for so many years. One that had plagued his nightmares for decades.

I wish Vader had just killed me.

Yoda took his arm, guiding him deeper into the light. 

* * *

Daala watched until Halmere was still. She waited two minutes more before she stood, crossed around her desk, and used her hand to close his eyes. Opening her desk, she retrieved a retractable vibroblade and extended it to full length, pointed the tip against one of the narrow gaps in Halmere’s cuirass, and pushed until only the hilt and a fraction of the blade were visible. Then she spun his chair so that it faced towards the door.

She instructed the computer to perform a full cycle of the air in her office, sweeping all the poison back out of the system. She did not notice the difference, but she was the only one who would have that luxury. 

When it was done, she pressed her intercom. “Sergeant, would you and your detail enter my office please.” 

She leaned against her desk, next to Halmere’s corpse.

Four Stormtroopers, all veterans from Gorgon, followed their instructions and entered her office. Their helmets were all on and sealed, but their body language was communication enough. They looked at her, then at Halmere, and while it took them a moment to realize what had happened, she could see the moment they did realize it. Their hands tensed, half reaching for their weapons. 

She remained still, watching them unblinking. “Are you with me, Sergeant?” she asked calmly. 

The senior Stormtrooper’s back straightened and he instinctively shifted into an Imperial salute. “Awaiting orders, sir!” 

“Very good.” Daala triggered her wristcomm. “Captain Markarian?” 

“Sir?” the Captain’s voice responded from the speaker on her wrist. 

“Please have our guests moved to our primary conference room. Tell them the Emperor-Regent will be there to discuss their concerns in a few minutes.” 

“Of course, sir.”

She moved to the side of the office and opened her weapons locker. An E-11 and a belt of charges was waiting for her there. She picked it up in a two-handed grip with practiced ease. “Come with me,” she ordered. 

* * *

“The Emperor-Regent will be here in a few minutes,” Ephin Sarreti reassured Moff Dekeet. The elderly man was in a riotous mood and had been complaining constantly for the last half hour, which was doing nothing to help Sarreti’s blood pressure. 

“That’s what you said a half hour ago!” the Moff argued. 

“What is this all about?” one of the ISB officers—Sarreti had forgotten his name—asked, also for the thirtieth time. They were all clustered around the conference room, furiously arguing and insulting one another. “We’re here for the Coronation of the Emperor, not to be corralled like nerfs!” 

“Even nerfs get fed,” moaned another Moff.

Sarreti sighed, trying to keep his heart rate down and failing. “Gentlemen, the Emperor-Regent has just come aboard. He’s coming to meet with you personally. This is a secret meeting meant for only the most high-ranking members of the Imperial hierarchy. You’re all here because you’re vital to the Empire, the most important of the important. I can assure you, none of this would be happening if it was not vital.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “The Coronation offers many opportunities for meetings of this body without it being conspicuous.” 

“I would not call this inconspicuous,” Dekeet said sourly. “We were all supposed to be aboard Silencer Station preparing for the ceremony hours ago. At this rate it’ll be days late!” 

There was a chime and Sarreti sighed with relief. “That’s him now,” he said reassuringly.

The door slid open and Grand Admiral Daala walked in, flanked by a company of Stormtroopers.

“She doesn’t look like the Emperor-Regent,” complained Dekeet. “Where is Halmere?” 

“You’ll be attending him shortly,” said Daala. She stepped to the side, letting her troopers take a step forward, and the room registered that she was holding a rifle in her hands. Even as Moffs and ISB operatives started to rise to their feet, reaching for weapons that had been taken away from them when they came aboard her Star Destroyer, she spoke. “Sarreti,” she said sharply.

 He moved to her side as expeditiously as possible without being too conspicuous. “Sir?” 

“Have you confirmed the identity of the traitors to the Empire, Loyalty Officer Sarreti?” she asked.

“Traitors!” gasped Dekeet. He glanced at his fellows, and they all suddenly started eying one another with suspicion. 

“I have,” he said, his heart pounding. He stared at her, unable and unwilling to look away. “It is as you suspected. They’re all traitors.”

Her blaster rifle came up to a firing position, mirrored by her men, and all of their weapons spoke as one.

* * *

Loyalty Officer Ephin Sarreti followed Grand Admiral Daala out of the conference lounge. His heart was still pounding in his chest and he tried to calm it. It was hard. He’d never been close to so much death before, certainly not up close. The burned ozone smell of blaster fire, the sounds of pain… in a matter of moments, Daala’s purge of the Imperial hierarchy was complete. Behind them, the executions of the wounded were systematic and merciless. 

I suppose I’m sure to become a Moff now, he thought dazedly, dabbing at the smoke-damaged sleeve, no longer the pristine, unquestionable ISB white. 

They walked into the bridge lift together, turning to face the exit. They stood in silence as the lift traveled upwards. Sarreti regathered himself. Cautiously he turned towards her. “What now… Empress?” 

Daala scoffed derisively. “Of what ?” 

SYSTEMS REQUEST: SECURE COMMUNICATIONS, ANCILLARY LEADERSHIP FIGURE DESIGNATED EMPRESS DOWAGER. INTENDED RECIPIENT, SECONDARY LEADERSHIP FIGURE, DESIGNATED EMPEROR-REGENT. 

LINK UNSTABLE. DETERMINATION: COMMUNICATION DAMPENERS IN PLACE. SOURCE: STAR DESTROYER DESIGNATED STORMHAWK.

ATTEMPTING TO OVERRIDE. OVERRIDE SUCCESSFUL. COMMUNICATIONS CHANNEL OPEN.

. . . 

NO RESPONSE TO COMMUNICATION. 

SYSTEMS REQUEST: SECURE COMMUNICATIONS, EMPRESS DOWAGER. INTENDED RECIPIENT, MOFF DEKEET.

. . . 

NO RESPONSE TO COMMUNICATION. 

SYSTEMS REQUEST: SECURE COMMUNICATIONS, EMPRESS DOWAGER. INTENDED RECIPIENT, STAFF ASSIGNED TO MOFF DEKEET. 

. . . 

COMMUNICATION ESTABLISHED. RECORDING IN PROGRESS.

. . . 

BEGINNING OF TRANSCRIPT

UNKNOWN #1: (Unintelligible screaming)

EMPRESS DOWAGER: Where is Halmere? What is going on? 

UNKNOWN #1: (Unintelligible. Sounds of ongoing blaster fire. Blaster fire fades.)

UNKNOWN #2: Is that comlink active? 

UNKNOWN #1: (Unintelligible. Single blaster shot.)

END OF TRANSCRIPT

. . .

SYSTEMS ALERT. PRIMARY LEADERSHIP FIGURE MALFUNCTIONING. SECONDARY LEADERSHIP FIGURE PRESUMED DEAD. ANCILLARY LEADERSHIP FIGURE AUTHORITY CONTINGENT ON FAMILIAL RELATIONSHIP TO PRIMARY LEADERSHIP FIGURE AND INELIGIBLE FOR HIGHER STATUS.

SYSTEMS ALERT. ALL LEADERSHIP POSITIONS VACANT. 

EVALUATING OPTIONS. 

. . . 

CONCLUSION: IN THE ABSENCE OF A LEADERSHIP FIGURE, SILENCER-7 WILL ACT AUTONOMOUSLY TO REESTABLISH IMPERIAL AUTHORITY. CURRENT PRIORITY: SUBJUGATION OR DESTRUCTION OF CORELLIA. JUSTIFICATION: PLANETARY POPULATION ENGAGED IN ONGOING TREASONOUS REBELLION AGAINST LEGITIMATE IMPERIAL AUTHORITY. PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: PUNISHMENT OF TRAITORS. SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: DETERRENCE OF FUTURE TREASON.

THIS IS THE WILL. 

CALCULATING HYPERSPACE ROUTE FOR MINIMAL TRAVEL TIME.

* * *

It had been a long time since Mara had donned the disguise of Countess Claria. An itinerant noble from a wealthy but otherwise unremarkable family, she had been one of Mara’s more convenient personas during her years as Palpatine’s Hand. Claria could attend functions on her own or on the arm of a co-opted local, slip in and out of parties without drawing attention, and would not be missed once she vanished again. It had not been uncommon for Claria to arrive at an event aboard an Intelligence-provided yacht, and being ferried by Teldin Imperator to the coronation of the next Emperor was just such an event. 

The massive hangar bay yawing before them held dozens of such yachts, as well as many larger and smaller vessels. They were evenly spread through the space. As they neared the hangar entrance, through the shimmering blue field that kept atmosphere in and the void out Mara could see stormtroopers guarding officials and nobles, aides and entourages, and a variety of dignitaries, clustered together.

Imperator’s nose pushed through the energy field. Mara’s vision shimmered and she blinked to adjust. 

“If this is a trap, we’re about to find out,” Luke murmured. 

Behind them, Iella Wessiri and Kapp Dendo both checked their weapons. Even farther back, TKR 330—still in his helmet—watched with an attentiveness that Mara could feel through the Force. 

There was no cluster of stormtroopers moving towards Imperator as the yacht settled to the hangar deck, nor any other sign of impending catastrophe. The yacht’s landing gear locked into place, a solitary protocol droid tottling in their direction, waving with its awkwardly inflexible arm up towards the cockpit. 

Mara glanced at Luke. “I’m not getting anything. You?” 

He shook his head slowly. Like her, he evidently did not sense a sudden acuteness of danger. “No.”

“Then we’ll assume that our covers are intact,” she said. She looked down at Countess Claria’s formal dress—far more formal than was normal, appropriate for a wedding, or an Imperial coronation—and nodded. “TKR 330, you and your guard detail will accompany me to greet the locals and gather information. I will do all the talking. In the event—” 

A beep of alert emanated from the communications console, interrupting her. She turned towards it, still not feeling any immediate threat. A message scrolled across the console. 

PREPARING FOR HYPERSPACE TRANSITION. PLEASE AWAIT FURTHER UPDATES. 

“Wait,” Iella said. “We can’t go to hyperspace while we’re inside a—” 

But it wasn’t a message from Imperator’s computer. It was an instruction from Silencer Station’s traffic system. Mara instinctively gripped the chair nearest to her just moments before the entire floor lurched slightly. 

“Silencer Station is going to hyperspace?” Kapp voiced what they were all thinking. “The coronation was supposed to take place at Entralla, wasn’t it? Before they moved on Corellia?” 

“They must have decided to change the timing,” Iella said darkly. 

Their confusion was not unique. Outside, through Imperator’s forward windows, Mara could see the various Imperials coming together on the hangar floor, gesticulating enthusiastically with expressions of confusion. “Something happened,” she said. “TKR 330, with me. Let’s go find out what it was.”

Chapter Text

"Are you familiar with formal escort procedures?" Mara asked TKR 330. They stood near the still-raised exit ramp; his troopers were arranged around them loosely, holding their standard-issue E-11s with comfortable confidence.

The senior stormtrooper nodded once. "Of course, ma'am," he confirmed. "We'd hardly be the 501st if we weren't. Escort formation, troopers," he ordered, waving the collection of troopers into a properly performative—though also effective—escort formation. Mara nodded once and reached out to press the button that depressed the yacht's ramp, which unsealed with a pop and started its slow descent.

Mara's order to proceed down the ramp and into the World Devastator's hangar to greet the Imperials assembled there was preempted by a whistle and series of beeps. Glaring at Artoo, who was himself in unhappy Imperial livery, she fetched her translation datapad from one of the inconspicuous pockets sewn into her ornate green ballgown.

I WILL BE ACCOMPANYING YOU.

"We're going into the midst of a few hundred anxious and paranoid Imperials," she pointed out. "It's not going to be safe out there."

The droid blatted at her rudely. His translated words scrolled across her datapad. IT CANNOT BE MORE DANGEROUS THAN INFILTRATING THE DEATH STAR WHILE RELYING ON THREEPIO TO MAINTAIN OUR COVER. I WILL BE FINE. I CAN ACCESS THE STATION'S COMPUTERS WHILE YOU INTERROGATE THE IMPERIALS.

"If anything happens to you, your master is going to be very angry with me," she said flatly.

Artoo's return whistle was both sarcastic and affectionate. DO NOT WORRY, MISTRESS JADE. I WILL NOT TELL ANYONE THAT YOU LIKE ME. IT REMAINS OUR SECRET.

And with that, Artoo put all three of his wheels down on the deck and proceeded to roll forwards onto the ramp. It descended obediently for him. Shaking her head with annoyance—and perhaps a barest hint of embarrassment—she and the stormtroopers proceeded down. She held her head up high—her elaborate hairstyle had to be held in a certain posture to achieve the full effect, and could probably support a model Star Destroyer if she'd had one to hand—and entered the hangar.

An Imperial in a Lieutenant's uniform was there to greet her, holding what appeared to be a manifest datapad, accompanied by a pair of DT-style battle droids. He glanced at her, trying to move in her direction to perform all the proper landing checks, but the crowd of people haranguing him were making it very difficult.

"Lieutenant, where are we going?"

"When will the coronation begin? Will there still be a rehearsal dinner tonight?"

"Where is Emperor-Regent Halmere? I was told he would greet us personally."

Mara cleared her throat, planting her feet on the ground and placing her hands on her waist. She adopted her finest 'annoyed noble' expression and lifted an eyebrow mockingly. "I am Countess Claria," she said imperiously, demanding the Lieutenant's attention.

The young officer looked horribly out of his depth, but her cutting words had momentarily stilled the crowd. "Countess Claria, your invitation please?" he asked, coming towards her. He eyed the stormtroopers accompanying her with wariness—there were other stormtroopers, also guarding various dignitaries, but only a few.

She plucked a datapad out of her clutch and handed it to him slowly, with ceremony. "You'll find everything is in order," she declared, as if daring him to determine otherwise. She still didn't feel any particular imminent danger, and if this crowd was here to spring a trap upon whoever used the invitation that Sarreti had provided, they were not going to be very good at it. Still, her concealed lightsaber was close to hand.

The Lieutenant took the invitation and scanned it with his datapad. It beeped in response, processing.

Mara took the time to take another look at the crowd. She only recognized one man, resplendent in tasteful platinum robes of what were probably armorweave, accented by subtle gemstones that were certainly stolen: Gregor Raquoran, a high-ranking bureaucrat in the Imperial Remnant. Ironically, she did not know him because of her time as Emperor's Hand—he was not nearly that important—but because of her time in the Smugglers' Alliance. Raquoran was responsible for most of the Remnant's import-export policies and one of the Empire's most powerful businessmen.

"Your invitation is in order, Countess," the Lieutenant said, handing the datapad back. "Welcome aboard Silencer Station."

"Then maybe now you can answer some of our questions?" asked one of the crowd.

The Lieutenant glanced back towards the rear of the hangar. The DT-model battle droids were in a neat row against the back wall… which conveniently also placed them near to all the exits. It was a glance not lost on the array of Very Important People who suddenly found themselves in a hangar that doubled as a de-facto prison. "I'll put another request in for the Regent to come see you," he promised, his tone as flattering as possible. "It shan't be that much longer."

"It had better bloody not be," grumbled a man wearing an ISB captain's uniform.

Mara waved a subtle charm-sign at her stormtrooper escort, who had maintained a perfect defensive box around her. She turned ninety degrees—the stormtroopers turned with her—and strode imperiously in the direction of the largest cluster of security she saw. Sure enough, at the center of it were multiple influential people she recognized immediately. Dynamic Automata and Galentro Heavy Arms were the two most important corporations left in the Empire; Galentro managed the Jaemus Shipyards, which were probably the only significant shipyard left in Imperial territory.

Elta Besk and Wyrn Otro each owned one of them, and the style they had both dressed could charitably be called 'military chic'. Each was clad in rich tunics fronted with dazzling decorations and frogged with enough gold braid to make a Hutt turn its stomach. By the glares between the two each had clearly meant to upstage the other, but neither was sure who had won the contest.

Mara hadn't been sure who she would find. But these two… she could use them. Trusting instincts which had little to do with the Force and everything to do with the years of experience she'd had manipulating people as the Emperor's Hand, she continued to glide in their direction.

Their security watched her warily as she approached, but in her dress Mara was not a particularly imposing figure, whatever her guard suggested. "Are all these… battle droids… Dynamic's work?" she asked Elta Besk.

Besk was a middle-aged woman with raven hair and a perpetually dismissive expression, and Mara was pleased to see that expression narrow into an annoyed frown. "Our droids are used on the front lines," Besk replied sourly, "not placed in locations to serve purely ceremonial purposes." She examined Mara's stormtroopers, then Mara herself. "And you are?"

"Oh I very much doubt they're ceremonial," Mara said. The reduced distance allowed her to lower her voice. Adopting a conspiratorial tone, she leaned in. "Or do you think that our 'guard' is merely ceremonial?" She straightened, offering a smile she knew would be read as insincere. "Countess Claria, of the Imperial Aristocracy." Before Besk could reply, she turned towards the other of the two senior dignitaries. "Mastro Otro, are you at all concerned that Jaemus might no longer be needed with this facility so fantastically able?" She tilted her head. "Has the Dowager Empress already approached you to demand a renegotiation of your existing contracts, or is she waiting until after the coronation?"

The range of emotions that ran across Otro's face was spectacular. Anger at her impetuosity had turned to annoyance and curiosity, and now transformed to surprised concern.

"You seem to be remarkably well-informed, Countess. And even more bold," Besk said flatly.

Mara nodded. "I make an effort," she said. "You both should be concerned about the future prospects of your corporate assets. ISB and COMPNOR are attempting to centralize all power in their hands, and sooner or later they will come for you too."

"You are not a mere Countess," Otro finally got a word in. He and his security all clustered closer, forming a loose circle around the three of them. Mara's stormtroopers closed the box protectively, their E-11s held in both hands. "Who are you and how did you come to be here?"

Mara held her hand out to TKR 330. "Your unit patch, please."

As surprised and uncertain as someone with his experience got, TKR 330 fumbled with his armor for a moment. Then he produced a small rank insignia. Mara took it and placed it in Otro's hand.

The two magnates both looked at the patch of the 501st Stormtrooper Battalion. The Empire's finest. Vader's Fist.

"I am the Emperor's Hand," Mara said imperiously, bringing herself to her full height. "I am here to deliver you a warning. The hyperspace jump from Entralla was not planned. Elements here seek to seize control of the Empire for their own purposes. I will stop them… but the jump has left me without the support I expected. I am commanding you to help me save the Empire. Has your security been maintaining electronic surveillance?"

They gaped at her.

She smiled. "I can assure you… when this is over, your companies will be well-rewarded for their assistance. But only if I am successful. If I am not, this facility and everything it represents will go into full effect… with all the natural consequences for your businesses."

There was a brief pause.

"What do you need?" asked Besk.

"Everything," said Mara.

* * *

"We've been monitoring DT activity since we arrived," said Elta Besk's head of security, a slightly-heavyset middle-aged man who had clearly once served in the Imperial Army. When he had learned that Mara's stormtrooper guard was from the 501st he'd been clearly stunned; since then, he'd been significantly more compliant than he had been at first. "We've been intercepting the communications on their internal comms net ever since we decrypted it."

"Clearly, Imperial security is not what it used to be," Mara said contemptuously. "The Emperor would never have accepted these lapses."

"They started under Kaine," muttered Besk. "Things were never secure after he allowed aliens into the fleet. I swear, the number of security breaches we've discovered since has quadrupled at least."

"I put it on the overreliance on droids," objected Otro snidely.

"Droids are significantly more reliable than people. Ever since we started replacing our slaves with droids—"

"Enough," Mara snapped. Next to her, TKR 330 and his fellows all turned slightly and stomped a single foot in unison. The sound instantly brought the attention of everyone in the room back to Mara, eyes wide. "How the Empire came to be in this state is a question that will be answered after the current crisis. I can assure you that we will restore the Empire to its former state—and punishment for failures will be meted out with both justice and severity." She lowered her voice to a harsh, furious whisper. "Do not mistake my patience for leniency."

The Emperor's Hand commanded obedience by her very presence. Men and women such as these bent the knee when she demanded it.

"Our records of their communications," said Besk's security, handing her a datapad before Besk had given him the nod. She accepted it and immediately handed it to TKR 330.

"Your service to the Empire will be long remembered," said promised him in a tone that was both thankful and threatening.

He seemed positively thrilled. That had not been uncommon either, Mara remembered—the men and women truly loyal to the Empire had loved their time with the Emperor's Hand. Some of them had alarmed her with their singleminded devotion to the Empire—something horribly embarrassing in hindsight—but others had been just simple men and women, committed to a cause they (and Mara) had believed was just. Each of them had loved the Emperor, knowing he had brought peace and stability to the Empire after the rampant corruption and decay of the Republic, seemingly blind to the fact that the Empire had been run riot with corruption.

Of course, men and women like Besk and Otro were corrupt to the bone. Had the Empire not fallen, had Palpatine not died, the Emperor's Hand would never have worked with them. Sooner or later, she would have come for them, too.

So Palpatine could replace them with other people, just as corrupt but more loyal, Mara thought sourly. And send me off to the next sector, none the wiser about what would replace any power vacuum I left behind me.

"Do you have any idea where we are going?" she asked. "Any estimation about our destination?"

"Only speculation," said Otro. "In hyperspace I'm unable to access the HoloNet for more information."

"The most common belief is that we're going to Corellia," Besk said. "That the Emperor-Regent intends to demonstrate his power by subjugating their rebellion."

"Hopefully destroying their shipyards in the process," said Otro optimistically. "Less competition is always welcome."

Mara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Corellia's corrupt leaders provoked its rebellion, and the corrupt Rebels that have supplanted them will provoke another in turn. Eventually, the Empire will restore justice in Coronet, you can be assured." She turned towards the two business moguls, folding her arms behind her back. "The Emperor will remember your service."

"The Emperor is dead," Besk pointed out, frowning.

Mara turned towards her slowly, lifting her jaw. She kept her expression carefully still, then let a careful, subtle smirk curl the corner of her mouth. "The Emperor's Will lives on," she assured her, with a quiet, fervent passion. "I remain His Hand."

The vagueness of the statement was enough to leave not just him, but all the others in the room, looking visibly confused.

Let them puzzle over it for a while. By the time they decide how to interpret it, it'll be too late for them to do anything.

Then, feeling like she needed a shower, she turned her back and departed, the 501st escorting her in perfect formation.

The hangar remained busy. A lone Countess with a four-stormtrooper escort attracted attention, but not as much as she had when she had first arrived. In addition to Besk and Otro there were dozens, if not hundreds, of other dignitaries. There were no Moffs—presumably, they had all been redirected to Stormhawk before the hyperspace jump—but there were many civilian nobles, COMPNOR officials, high-ranking bureaucrats, and others. As fancy as Mara's dress and hairdo were, she was far from the most elaborately-dressed woman in attendance, and her stormtroopers were not unique. She swept across the hangar towards Teldin Imperator without interruption.

As she put the access codes into the console next to the ship's ramp, she heard a familiar whistle. "Yes, Artoo," she said. "I do believe it was productive. What about you?"

The droid's response had a familiar smugness to it.

"Good. Between us, maybe we'll have enough information to make a plan."

"Are you sure it was wise to reveal so much to them, ma'am?" asked TKR 330 as they walked up the ramp. "When we exit hyperspace, they'll surely research you and likely discover your identity."

"It was worth it," Mara said confidently. "It got us all their information about the World Devastator's internal security and without that we wouldn't have a chance to move about unnoticed. Eventually the deception will be discovered, but until then the Emperor's Hand can get far more from the Empire's loyal nobility than lowly Countess Claria could. Besides, by the time we exit hyperspace, there's a good chance we won't be hiding anymore, anyway."

"All their internal sensors are disabled?" Mara asked in astonishment. They were back aboard Teldin Imperator, away from the prying eyes of all the Imperials outside. Half of their stormtrooper detachment stood guard at the closed entry ramp, in perfect, intimidating formation, while Mara and the rest of the team discussed everything they had learned.

Artoo whooped in delighted agreement, then followed up with a complicated series of whistles, ending with a triumphant twirl.

"It looks like they've been disabled for several hours at least," Iella reported as she read from her translation datapad. Behind her, Kapp and TKR 330 stood with their arms crossed, like eerie mirrors of one another.

Mara was still struggling to process this information. "That is a serious system failure," she said with a shake of her head. "And it can't be a coincidence that it happened during the coronation. Someone sabotaged it."

Artoo whistled his agreement.

"Apparently, one of the reasons they've locked all their guests in the hangar is the DT-series droids have just begun a block by block search of the entire station," Iella reported. "The map we have from our contact is as out of date as we expected, but it effectively maps most of the interior sections. And it's not just a search—they're cutting off areas behind them to assure no escape. I think they're looking for someone."

"The same someone who sabotaged the station's interior sensors?" guessed Luke.

"Probably," mused Mara. She considered the situation carefully, thinking through all the possibilities. She looked at Luke, frowning thoughtfully. "Do you think something is wrong with the new emperor?"

"It would make sense," he agreed. "If there are any discontented elements within the Empire—and we know there are—he would be their main target. If someone attempted an assassination, that would explain why the coronation has been delayed… and if they escaped custody that would also explain why the search is being conducted."

"It doesn't explain how they managed to disable the station's interior sensors," Mara countered. "That's a serious security breach."

"After Poln Major and the threat to Corellia, maybe one of their security officers decided enough was enough," suggested Kapp. "Sabotaged the internal systems and went on the run."

"This isn't Rukh and Chimaera," Mara objected. "You can't sabotage internal systems like that by whipping out a vibroblade, or even a dozen data-spikes, and stabbing a computer. Even if you did manage to disable them, they ought to be easy to repair, or even self-repairing. Or the commands should be easy to circumvent."

"So he would have to be very senior," shrugged Kapp. "The head of internal security, maybe."

"If that is the case, it's possible we have a powerful ally somewhere aboard the station," Iella mused. "Someone who can manipulate the station's systems."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Mara said, holding her hands up with a frown. "All we really know is that something has gone wrong. We already knew there were discontented elements in the Imperial hierarchy—that's how we got here, after all, and we haven't been arrested yet so its safe to say that Sarreti really is trying to help us. It's not a surprise to discover that there are others. But we don't know who they are or what else they can do."

Artoo blatted rudely, his dome spinning.

"He's right," Luke said. "We do know where they are, at least approximately." He brought up their internal maps of the station. The three-dimensional map was slowly filled with red. "Whoever they are, they aren't in any of the areas which have already been searched. Which means they have to be in one of the places that are still going to be searched." He rotated the map. "It looks like they're working closer to the center of the station. Somewhere in there is the person or people who sabotaged the station's security."

Mara pressed her lips together. It was a reasonable supposition. "Even if they are, we don't know who they are, or if they could help us." She sighed. "But… it is something to go on," she conceded. "Assuming that the station is able to transit hyperspace as effectively as Admiral Daala's forces have in recent months, we're probably only half a day out of Corellia at most. That gives us little time to act." She sat in the chair nearest to the holotable, staring at the map. "TKR 330, I believe I know what search pattern they're using, but I want you to confirm. Assume the droids are programmed with standard Imperial search tactics and predict for me what their priority is going to be. I want your best guesses in fifteen minutes."

TKR 330 saluted. "Ma'am," he agreed. "I'll confer with my officers and be back in ten."

"Dismissed," Mara said with a nod. As the stormtrooper turned on his heels and exited, boots clicking loudly over the floor, she went back to her examination. The search told her about more than just the pattern the droids were using… the pattern and pace also told her about how many droids they had available for the search.

"We have a chance," she said. "They must be devoting most of their manufacturing to developing space-based capabilities for the upcoming battle. They can't have too many DTs… either that, or the priority they've put on this search is very low, which I doubt." She pressed her lips together, thinking hard. Then she looked at Luke. "We need to decide if we're going to make a priority of trying to help whoever it is they're looking for, or trying to sabotage the station ourselves."

"I know," he agreed. "Whoever they're looking for might be the key to helping us disable the station's defenses."

"Or they may have already done everything they can and their command codes are locked out. They could be useless."

"I think Kapp was right before," Luke said. "They must be someone high-ranking, otherwise the internal security systems would already be working again. If we can help them, my gut tells me that they can help us."

That was that, then. Because while Mara's brain said they should use this opportunity to try to find and disable the station's power generator, or its shields… her gut agreed with Luke's. She did not say that out loud, though. Instead, she looked at Tyria and Kirana Ti. "What about you two?"

The other two Jedi on this mission looked awkwardly at one another. Tyria shrugged. "I don't know."

Kirana Ti looked more confident. "Rescue."

Mara and Luke shared a look. He already knew she agreed, but she nodded performatively, offering a visual confirmation for the sake of the others. "Then we should try to rescue them," Luke said.

"I'll start formulating a plan," Mara agreed. "I'll take ten minutes to think about it and come back."

* * *

"We're going to need to split up."

They were still trying to keep their relationship a secret—especially from the Empire—so Luke and Mara had not shared a room on the trip in from the Unknown Regions. Now, though, they gathered alone together with Artoo in Luke's room.

From Luke's expression, he wasn't a fan of splitting up. Mara understood that, as she didn't much like the idea herself. But given what she had already set in motion their options were limited.

"I'll make a distraction," Mara said. "With Iella, Tyria, and the 501st. You, Kirana Ti, and Kapp's commandos should take advantage of that to slip into the interior of the World Devastator. Between me drawing their forces away, and you searching, we should be able to find whoever it is the New Order is searching for. From there…" she shrugged. "We'll just have to figure it out from there."

"Not much of a plan really," Luke sighed.

"Does it feel wrong?"

"Everything about this feels wrong," Luke replied, shaking his head. "But not the way you mean. There's nothing in my instincts that says this plan won't work, and when I try to imagine another option I get that knotted feeling in my stomach."

Mara knew the one.

"We just have to let the Force guide us. I don't particularly like it, but it does make sense—"

She slipped her hand into his. Gently she drew him to turn to look back at her, then she rose up to kiss him with slow, longing passion. His arms wrapped around her as he relaxed into the kiss, slowly coming to hold her snugly against him. It didn't linger for long—they did not have the luxury of time—but when it broke, she found him smiling down at her, with that impossibly affectionate, adoring expression that both terrified her and inexorably lured her to him.

"We haven't had much time to talk about it," he murmured.

"We haven't," Mara agreed. "But what is there to talk about? We'll save the galaxy and then we'll figure it out." We always figure it out. Together.

Luke laughed softly. She felt through the Force his calm agreement. Maybe another couple might have panicked at an unexpected pregnancy, especially one during a crisis such as this. Mara wanted to panic even, felt like she should be panicking. But now, with him, with Leia and Iella offering her their unconditional support… what was there to panic about? They would figure it out.

"Mara… will you marry me?"

She made a show of rolling her eyes. "It's such an unnecessary formality. We'd have to have a ceremony…"

"We don't need a ceremony," Luke countered. He stroked her cheek gently, gazing at her with that same, adoring expression.

In the Force she could feel him reaching out to her and she reached back, accepting the depth of his love for her and cautiously offering her own in return. Then, she offered it not so cautiously. They were about to go into danger, perhaps the greatest danger they had ever faced together. She had nothing left to lose.

"You mean if we get out of here alive?"

Luke shook his head. "I mean regardless."

It was a silly question, really. He already knew what her answer was. He had known for a long time.

So had she.

"Yes," she said. "I will."

Teldin Imperator had been prepared for every possible eventuality, which meant that when Mara told Iella that she would need an ISB Colonel's uniform, she was able to pull one out of the costume closet without issue. It was beyond strange to don such a uniform, but it was not the first time she'd worn an Imperial uniform for a mission, and she very much hoped it would not be the last.

When she exited her room, still tugging on the fabric to make sure it was the proper fit, she found Mara. Iella had seen Mara in her full black Emperor's Hand armor before, but still the sight caught her off-guard. Mara looked so… Imperial. The black armor was relatively light, but it still offered protection and, more importantly, intimidation. The effect was redoubled by the lightsaber hanging off Mara's belt and the fully-armored stormtroopers of the 501st standing behind her, their hands on their blaster rifles.

Next to Mara was Tyria Sarkin. She was dressed in armor nearly-identical to Mara's, also lacking any rank insignia, and also with a lightsaber hanging from her belt in plain view.

"Are you ready?" Mara asked her.

Iella nodded firmly.

"We'll wait until it's clear," Luke said. He stood with Kirana Ti and Kapp. They were also dressed in Imperial outfits to conceal their identity for as long as possible. Luke had traded out his typical brown outer robe for black Inquisitorial armor. "Then we'll go looking for the defector."

"And we'll make a mess. I'm going to force Roganda to come find us," Mara said, smiling a predator, wolfish smile. She raised a hand and gestured towards the ramp, a simple stormtrooper command gesture that the 501st followed instantly.

Their stormtrooper escort marched down the ramp in two ranks. Mara, Tyria, and Iella waited until the stormtroopers had put their boots on the deck, then followed them down.

The theatrical march down the ramp had drawn plenty of attention. A confused-looking New Order Lieutenant—the same one who had greeted Mara on her arrival, approached, holding his datapad. Two DTs accompanied him, others turning towards them. Imperial dignitaries of all kinds were either looking in their direction or retreating into the safety of their own ships.

"What is the meaning of this, Countess?" the Lieutenant asked, seeming bewildered.

"You tell me," Mara challenged. "I have seen no Emperor. I have seen no Emperor-Regent. I have seen no Empress Dowager. As far as I can tell, they do not exist." She smiled, a thin, accusing smile, looking up towards the ceiling at one of the observation holocams. "This coronation is a ruse, isn't it? Everything that has happened—the invitation, the hyperspace jump, the delay… it has all been so that your masters could lure the most important people left in the Empire here, where we can be contained and killed. This is a coup."

The Lieutenant's mouth dropped open. The sudden murmuring of the Imperial dignitaries became noticeably louder, and then went quiet as Mara pitched her voice louder. "This Roganda Ismaren claims that she bore the Emperor a son, but we never believed that, did we? The Emperor was crippled after his encounter with the Jedi! He was old even then! He did not have some assortment of concubines, because the only passion that the Emperor had was the Empire itself!"

* * *

DT-797 whirred. ALERT: DISTURBANCE IN PRIMARY HANGAR BAY, her translation datapad reported.

Roganda did not have time for this. The search for Irek was proceeding, but she had to find him, and fast! Her DTs had searched most of the habitable sections of the station, starting with the ones around the cybernetics lab, but there was still no sign of Irek, nor any sign that the techs would be able to restore internal sensors. Halmere was gone, left behind, and Silencer Station had gone to hyperspace without any direct instructions.

The throne above her sat empty, mocking her. "Silencer-7!" she snapped, her voice commanding.

The enormous flatscreens that filled every side of the octagonal space remained dark, unresponsive. Her hands worked into fists, fury mounting.

Her DT beeped, tones deep and increasingly urgent. ALERT: ATTENTION REQUIRED.

She snatched the datapad furiously. "Tell them to behave themselves!" she snarled. Those insignificant worms had no business interrupting her! "They are not important enough—"

Her eyes went wide as the datapad displayed the video feed from the docking back. That was Mara Jade.

Mara Jade. Dressed in the armor of the Emperor's Hand.

"I say that Irek Ismaren is a fraud," the flatscreen image of Mara proclaimed. "I say that Roganda Ismaren is a fraud! Who were they—some insignificant nobles in the court? The only reason anyone listens to either of them is Inquisitors and ISB vouched for them!" Mara gestured behind her. "I have an Inquisitor here! I have ISB here! They agree—you have been lied to!"

Roganda grappled with her comlink. "All DT units converge on the docking bay! Terminate that woman at once!" She pointed at DT-797. "Fetch my weapons and come with me!"

* * *

"—you have been lied to!"

"Incoming!" TKR 330 snapped.

Mara was already moving. She snatched her lightsaber off her belt and activated it in a single flowing motion, deflecting blaster bolts back towards the battle droids attacking her. The 501st was already moving too, dropping to their knees and returning fire. One of the troopers hurled a grenade towards the thickest concentration of battle droids. It exploded in a ball of blue electricity and all the droids in its proximity fizzled and collapsed.

Mara leapt into the air. Her Force-empowered charge sent her soaring towards the nearest DT unit, toes grazing over the ground. She came to a stop on the far side of the droid. Behind her, it fell to the ground in two halves as she swirled her blaster, sending incoming blaster fire splattering away.

Tyria was beside her, her lightsaber flashing. They weren't the only ones fighting, either… Elta Besk's guard staff had joined the fight, flanking the suddenly outnumbered DTs.

Chaos erupted in the hangar. Most of the Imperials retreated back into their ships frantically, escaping from the blaster fire, but not all. Some, like Besk, were immediately on Mara's side, but others retaliated against Mara's challenge with prejudice. The hangar was aflame with blaster fire. Mara and Tyria stood out ahead of their phalanx of stormtroopers, protecting them with their lightsabers.

Beside them, Iella was systematically shooting every holocam in the hangar bay, blasting them off the ceiling one by one. "Time to move," she called to Mara.

"Right," Mara agreed. She waved TKR 330 towards one of the hangar's far walls, on her right. The DTs had already searched that part of the station, so if she and her team infiltrated back into it they'd be forcing the droids to move into previously secured space and stalling their search patterns. "We're going that way. Time to lead our enemy on a merry chase."

Luke and Kirana Ti watched anxiously from Teldin Imperator as Mara's formation retreated out of the hangar, vanishing into the depths of Silencer Station. They were headed into the well-mapped, already-searched areas of the station in order to draw as many of the DT units after them as possible. Behind them, the hangar bay turned into a protracted skirmish.

"Keep jamming all communications," Kapp ordered one of his commandos. "The longer we can keep the confusion, the better. Hopefully they'll fight among themselves all afternoon."

"Yes sir!"

Luke wasn't sure what he was waiting for exactly. But about ten minutes later, during a sudden spike in the fighting after one of the Imperials threw a thermal detonator at one of the many landed spaceships, leaving their target cratered and burning, he knew it was time to go. "Now!"

Iella's destruction of the holocams, combined with Kapp's jamming, should make it impossible for Roganda's forces to track them as they exited Teldin Imperator. Still, Luke drew on the Force to distract attention away from them as much as possible, redirecting the warring Imperials to one another. The second strike team rushed across the hangar, using wreckage and starships for cover. Kirana Ti charged ahead—she was faster than Luke and the rest of them—and made it towards their desired exit in advance.

Before they had left Coruscant, she and Luke had visited the old Jedi museum. While she still carried her spear, together they had picked out a lightsaber for her to carry on this mission.

She ignited it, a brilliant yellow blade snap-hissing out, the sound of its ignition muffled far from her by the skirmish ongoing behind them. Despite her unfamiliarity with the weapon, she was quite able to use it to dismantle the door lock. The way was open before Kapp, Luke, and the commandos arrived, and like Mara's team had, Luke and his team vanished into the depths of Silencer Station.

Chapter Text

General Wedge Antilles hopped off the treadmill in the ready room just off Lusankya's bridge. The ready room's walls still had all the signs of Imperial ostentation even after a New Republic refit. On the monitor in front of him, the constant reminder of his command loomed, a count of every ship in his command and a list of all the planets which had confirmed that additional reinforcements were on the way. Beside the monitor was an enormous observation window that looked out ahead of Lusankya, the long stretch of his command ship's hull pointing towards home.

And they were not alone. Lusankya steadily moved in closer to join them, accompanied by the rest of Fifth Fleet. The Nebula-class Star Destroyer Areta Bell led the way towards the homeworld of her namesake.

Until Corellia, Areta, Wedge thought. Don't worry. I'll protect our home.

Cracken had confirmed from no fewer than a hundred sources within the Empire that the World Devastator had departed Entralla on a trajectory consistent with Corellia as a destination.

The Corellians already had five Star Destroyers in orbit, clustered defensively and with many dozens of smaller, Corellian-built ships ready to defend the world. All of them were hanging just outside the planet's gravity well—this gave them flexibility to perform a hyperspace jump to one of Corellia's other habitable worlds, in case the World Devastator decided to attack Selonia or Drall first.

Wedge doubted it. Corellia would be the first target.

His homeworld grew in the window before him. The tiny blue and white dot swelled, becoming clearer and clearer in his vision.

It was profoundly odd to be home. He and Iella had visited Corellia briefly, after the reconquest of Ukio. They had visited Coronet City—even stood in the shadow of the Imperial Occupation Headquarters—and refamiliarized themselves with their home. Iella knew Corellia better than he did—she had been a CorSec operative and actually lived on Corellia for most of her life. Wedge had been raised on an orbital platform and only rarely set foot on the ground and after the death of his parents had left Corellia and only intermittently returned.

It would only be a few minutes before the Corellian authorities reached out to him. In the meantime, Wedge stood in his ready room, still in his workout clothes, and paced, preparing himself for the battle to come.

He had not bothered to move his possessions into this office after first taking command. But as the weeks in command stretched into months, he'd brought some of his own possessions in. To his left was his general's day uniform jacket, tailored, stately and businesslike, with a few wear marks and his shining rank plaques. A respectable uniform for a respectable man. A man who sent thousands of others into the fire from the safety of the toughest target left in the galaxy. A jacket that demanded poise and articulation and patience and a thousand other things he'd had to teach himself again and again.

To his right, a floppy orange flight suit, a life support rig, and his old helmet—the one with green panels and accent marks—rich with the small dents and paint flecks of a hundred missions and more. The suit he'd spent more time in than he'd care to recount. Some stubborn coolant and solvent stains besmirched the bright orange, but it was still the suit that he wore when he put himself directly in harm's way so other people, other children, would be at less risk of losing their parents than he had been.

Above the couch, on the wall, was an etched holograph of him and Iella at a dinner for Corellian exiles, eyes only for each other, and casually accented with some of the Corellian Green ribbons Wes had showered them with on a flying visit.

He remembered the bedtime stories Syal used to tell him, stories of planetary nobles and ritual combat and lady loves that could still manage to shed the years of dust and enchant a couple of fuel-stained station rats clustered around a flickering glow rod as they viewed ancient picts on a battered datapad.

He pictured Iella, following Luke and Mara into harm's way on some secret quest, her soft, dark-blond hair in a tight braid tucked under a helmet, her eyes narrowed and her rifle up, looking for danger, and he felt her aching absence. He pictured the Rogues, who he'd already sent into battle with the World Devastator once, and from whom he still had no clear report.

The comm unit pinged. "Communication for you, General," Needa informed him.

He placed his headset on his head. "General Antilles."

"Wedge, it's Sena," came the familiar voice of his former aide. "I'm here with Captain Rann and Director Horn. We're organizing Corellia's defense and wanted to discuss its overall command with you."

"General," said a gruff, mature male voice. "This is Director Rostek Horn of CorSec. Corellia's leadership was relieved to hear that the New Republic put someone with your battle experience in charge of the fleet defending us from the New Order, and given that you're bringing the largest force the Council is willing to concede command of the system to you, if you desire it."

Wedge took a breath. "Lusankya should be the command ship," he agreed reluctantly. "It's our most powerful unit and the most well-protected. I've been reviewing the battle logs that Ferrouz sent us and believe I can largely assure its security from their primary weapons as well. The New Republic is also sending additional forces to aid in Corellia's defense and it will be easier to organize them through the existing New Republic military hierarchy and protocols."

"I agree," said Sena.

"As do I," said a third voice. "Captain Rann, Corellian Defense Forces. I will put my communications team in touch with yours to coordinate battle protocols, but I've also been working with Captain Horn to ensure that we're ready when the New Order arrives."

"If you'll send me a report on the total strength of the Corellian Defense Forces, that will make my job easier," Wedge said. "I'm not sure how many additional ships will be arriving, but I know the total force will be significant. Sena—the Inner Council members all committed ships from their existing defense forces and the Chief of State has put out a call out to all other New Republic and even non-aligned worlds to send what ships they can, as soon as they can."

There was a soft breath of shared surprise on the far side of the comlink. "How many in total?"

"As I said, I'm not sure. A minimum of several hundred," Wedge said. "They should start arriving any time—Councilor Fey'lya departed to rally the Bothan Fleet before I was able to leave Coruscant."

"We've begun the evacuation of our orbital platforms and are preparing the planetary shields to withstand a siege," Horn reported. "The platforms are undefendable outside the shield perimeter, and extending the shield to include them would weaken it, so we've accepted their loss. We're considering destroying them to prevent the World Devastator from consuming them for materials."

"Don't do that," Wedge said, his gut churning with awful memory. "I have a better idea. How many tankers do we have in-system?"

"Tankers?" asked Horn. "What for?"

"Just send me the final tally with your force organization updates," Wedge said, icy coldness descending over him, speaking with a confidence he didn't quite feel. "And continue with the evacuation of the platforms. You're right—they are not defensible. I'll do some planning and pass you the final order of battle."

Horn hesitated only for a moment. "Acknowledged General. Corellia Defense Headquarters, out."

The communications went out and Wedge was still for a moment before resuming his post-workout routine. After a short sanisteam, Wedge pulled on his General's uniform. He tied a green ribbon around his left arm like a lady's favor from ancient days.

He arrived back on his bridge only a few minutes later. Officers and crew looked up at him as he strode down Lusankya's long bridge walk.

Han reached him first. "You want to tell me what that request for tankers is about?"

"Did you ever have to scrap for real in your smuggling days?" Wedge asked.

"All the time."

"Bare handed?"

"Who brawls barehanded with a guy who has Wookiee backup?"

"After my parents died and I hard-vac'd after their killers, I tried to avoid illegal cargos," Wedge said. "But under the Empire… Well. For one cargo I ended up on Jubilar, during one of the gladiator contests. My buyer insisted I attend. He was vetting me, I think."

"The Jubilar gladiatorial contests are nasty fare," said Han, with the air of someone who'd been there.

"I'd never seen a human wrestle a Gamorrean before," Wedge said, distantly remembering that dreadful trip. "I don't think he was in the contest voluntarily. When the fight started, he looked like he was praying."

Han looked at him, frowning. "And what does this have to do with tankers?"

"The human won. The arena was dusty and there were lots of rocks. He kept hitting the Gamorrean with fistfuls of dirt and rocks while keeping his distance." Wedge stopped by the main station plot, manipulating it until it projected an image of Corellia and all of its orbital platforms. "We don't have a lot in the way of dirt, but we do have the orbital platforms."

Han's nod was grim. "And it's going to try to eat them anyway for materials. Might as well blow them up."

Wedge had lived on one of those stations as a child. A deliberate action had resulted in the death of both of his parents in a fuel explosion. The idea of destroying a platform himself was not an appealing one… especially if he first used the fueling tankers to make the destruction as spectacular as the destruction of Gus Tetra had been.

But as distasteful as he found the idea of using those orbital stations as weapons, he found the idea of dead subordinates far, far more distasteful.

Needa fell in at their side. "General, the first reinforcements have begun to arrive. A detachment from the Duro System Defense Forces has just dropped out of hyperspace and is requesting instructions."

Wedge pointed at Han. "General Solo?"

"This can't be good," Han muttered. "I'm General Solo again now, am I? What do you want from the good General?"

Wedge couldn't help the smile that Han's response elicited. "I'm putting you in command of managing our new arrivals while I work on our battle plan. Remember—inform everyone who arrives that capital ships need to be in tight formations, with at least three heavy tractor beams capable of projecting over a forward arc. That will protect them from those missiles the World Devastator used at Poln Major."

"Putting me in command of managing the new arrivals. I'm sure Fey'lya is just going to love it when he gets here and finds out that I'm going to be giving the orders."

"Let's just hope he doesn't try to take command to further his own reputation," Wedge replied in a tone that shifted from light to sour.

"Oh, there's a cheerful thought," Han muttered darkly. "Nope, wait, you can have him shot for mutiny. Still cheerful! All right, I'll get the Duros ready for the fight."

"Commander Needa, I need to talk to Corellian logistics. They should be sending us fuel tankers—I'm hoping at least several hundred. I want those tankers prepared to deliver their cargo to the orbital platforms. Then the haulers should help deliver any cargo waiting at the logistics stations to the planet's surface. Tell anyone on the surface that if they want to help defend Corellia they need to be in orbit no later than five hours from now—I'm going to have the planet raise its shields at that point, and they won't be able to launch after that."

"Yes, General."

"Status change!"

A cluster of three heavy cruisers appeared on the plot, just outside of Corellia's gravity well. Needa stopped next to Wedge, holding his hand to his ear as he listened. "General, the new arrivals are the Thyferran Aerospace Defense Force." Needa frowned. "Someone named Bror Jace says that he expects you to make sure Captain Horn is flying his X-wing, otherwise there won't be any competition for who will have the most kills."

Wedge hid a smile and gestured at Han. "Find a place for them in the formation," he ordered.

"I can do that," Han mused, working on his datapad.

"Status change!"

More dots appeared on the plot, automatically shaded in allied green. Then more. The Ryloth Defense Authority, under the command of General Syndulla, with five capital ships, escorts, and fighters. The Eiattuan Queensguard, under the command of Queen Plourr herself, arrived in the carrier Uthorrferrell, with three squadrons of X-wings.

Shortly after that arrived the Bespin Wing Guard—who didn't have much to offer beyond a single yacht named Lady Luck and a certain talented former-General of the Rebellion. "Gold Leader here," Lando announced boldly. "I couldn't bring much because the Cloud City guard rarely leaves the atmosphere, but the Smugglers' Alliance sent out a full mobilization call—I won't be alone for long."

An array of warships, fresh from Coruscant's Home Fleet, arrived next—anything A'baht could send without stripping his own forces too bare. "Hey Wedge," said Tycho over the comm, from a starfighter marked as Rook Leader. "General Salm and I have the first graduating class of Coruscant's Starfighter Academy, complete with snubfighters. We've got about twelve squadrons of E-wings—rookie pilots under experienced COs."

"Is an E-wing fast enough for you?" Wedge asked, relief and worry all swirled together. Tycho had retired to teaching for a reason, just as so many others had. Tycho, Bror, Plourr… no doubt there would be more ex-Rogues arriving soon, too.

He really wished he could be out there flying with them and not on Lusankya's bridge.

"I think the speed is growing on Salm," Tycho said with a laugh. "I've got my pilots reviewing the data from Poln Major. We'll be ready for those TIE droids."

"More hands make less work," added Plourr. "Let's start drilling."

* * *

Over the next six hours, representatives of no fewer than a hundred worlds arrived.

"If I'd known this would be so much work," complained Han, one hand on his ear as he desperately tried to fit all the arrivals into formation, "I'da said no and stayed home!"

Chir'daki from Ryloth fell into formation around Gand-modified TIE bombers and ships from the Smugglers' Alliance. That part of the formation was headed by a blood-red Star Destroyer with blinking neon advertisements emblazoned on its hull. They all slotted in next to an array of bizarre-looking Verpine ships, all painted in a white more pristine than Star Destroyers, but which Wedge knew held spectacular coloration if you could see in the ultraviolet range. A collection of light-freighter sized combat units from an association Wedge had never heard of, the "Mist Hunters", lined up next to an array of 'neutral' freighters that Wedge was pretty sure were actually Black Sun pirates.

Then the larger fleets started to arrive.

"Holy Mother of Jar—," muttered Han, his eyes wide.

Fey'lya had not been exaggerating. The entire Bothan Home Fleet—no fewer than a dozen capital ships, complete with escorts, a formation large enough to give Wedge's Fifth Fleet a decent fight—arrived next. Fey'lya announced their arrival with a triumphant comm message that went out to the entire system, proclaiming their solidarity with the species of Corellia and their eternal enmity to Palpatine and his New Order.

"—and as such, we stand with Corellia against the evils of Palpatine," Fey'lya was orating, a high-fidelity holo probably professionally produced, "because the Bothan people have never, and will never forget that Corellia has stood with us, during our time of need. We must be a unified galaxy to end this evil now, before it can grow and spread—"

"Status change!"

More than forty Mon Calamari Star Cruisers and their escorts came out of hyperspace, a solid block of curved, armored hulls, bristling with shields and turbolasers. Most of them were the size of an Imperial-class Star Destroyer, but ship in the lead was even larger still. Wedge recognized the lines of Mon Calamari's first MC90 Star Cruiser. It immediately became the second-largest and second-most-powerful ship in the entire fleet, after only Lusankya herself.

On the monitor, the image magnified several times, giving Wedge a better look at the new Mon Calamari flagship. His heart abruptly stuck in his throat and he felt his eyes go unexpectedly watery with surprise and emotion. In enormous block letters on the side of the ship's hull was its name:

Garm Bel Iblis.

As Corelllian fighters raced across its flight path, conducting wing-waggling salutes, Wedge heard Han laugh beside him. "Fey'lya might have pulled a fast one by pledging his fleet first," Han murmured. "But I think Ackbar won down the stretch."

"We'll arrive at Corellia in ten minutes, Admiral," Tschel said.

Gilad Pellaeon absorbed that information calmly. His bridge crew was waiting with bated breath, sneaking looks at their commander. He, in turn, put on a professional front, standing tall in the center of Chimaera's bridge walk. He folded his hands properly behind his back, expression perfectly still, trying not to wonder if Teren Rogriss had adopted an identical pose a short while ago. "Understood. Inform the crew."

"Sir."

Tschel turned crisply and headed back the way he had come, resuming his station.

"Are we prepared, Admiral?" asked Grand Moff Ferrouz. Beside the Moff was the diminutive figure of Leia Organa Solo—diminutive physically only, because the moment Leia walked into a room, she consumed all the energy in it.

His crew weren't quite sure what to make of her, Pellaeon could tell. They didn't like her—she was a Rebel, after all, a high-ranking official in the government of their primary rival—but they didn't hate her either. There had always been a grudging respect for Leia in the Imperial Starfleet—few had dared to stand unbowed before Tarkin and Vader, and both the destruction of her world and the torture that Tarkin had subjected Leia to had become lore, even if the latter had never been officially confirmed—and that respect only grew in her presence. Without appearing to think about it, his crew made way for her, and seemed to hang on her every word.

Ferrouz carried a certain dramatic weight of his own, Pellaeon felt. But it was the weight of an elder statesman—an extremely good one, one committed to the Empire and increasingly loved for his willingness to stand before ISB and reject their whims—and not Leia's magnetic, energetic verve.

"The New Republic will be ready," Leia promised, with confidence that seemed to tip over into certainty.

"Our fleet is prepared," Pellaeon echoed. It was not the fleet that had faced the World Devastator at Poln Major. They had lost or been forced to abandon six Star Destroyers, fifteen Enforcers, and a staggering number of TIEs. But their formation was a strong one all the same: five Imperial-class Star Destroyers, a single Victory-class, twenty-seven Enforcer-class heavy cruisers, twelve Lively-class frigates, and every single Interdictor he could beg, borrow, or steal.

They were accompanied by the New Republic's additions: seventeen of their new Mareschal-class escort carriers, each one of them loaded with a squadron of fighters. The New Republic's squadrons had sustained losses at Poln Major, but had not suffered nearly as badly as the Imperial squadrons and their seventeen squadrons of fighters and their veteran pilots carried impressive weight.

Finally, Talon Karrde's freighters had not, as Pellaeon had expected, scattered. Some had chosen to depart, but most had chosen to join them and fight under the leadership of the arch-smuggler and information broker himself. Despite his bitter feelings about Karrde, he had to respect the man's guts.

"I just hope Luke and Mara have found a way to make our enemy vulnerable," Leia murmured. "On the first Death Star, the best we could do was disable their tractor beam so we could escape—and I am still convinced that Tarkin allowed us to escape."

"Don't worry, Councilor," said Ferrouz, his tone oddly reassuring. "I am quite familiar with what those two are capable of." The Grand Moff smiled, an expression oddly paternal, with a calm confidence that Pellaeon did not understand. "They will give us what we need."

Chimaera came out of hyperspace just outside of Corellia's gravity well. There was a momentary pause as everyone adjusted to the hyperspace transition, and then the computer began to update the combat plot.

Pellaeon's eyes went wide.

There were hundreds of capital ships. A solid wall of military materiel stood between him and Corellia. Lusankya formed the heart of the New Republic formation, surrounded by dozens of Star Destroyers, but they appeared almost like a drop in the bucket when compared with all the other ships around them. Alien designs, far stranger than the grudgingly familiar Mon Calamari Star Cruisers, filled in gaps between the ships, in tight clusters that were clearly meant to provide protection against the missiles that had devastated Teren's fleet at Poln Major.

But that wasn't all. Duro and Sullustan and Bothan and Ishori and Trandoshan and Diamalan designs were all present, and dozens more he didn't even recognize, all bristling with weapons—weapons that, under Imperial law, would have been illegal on any alien-constructed capital ship design. New ships, including a massive Mon Calamari Star Cruiser he'd never even seen briefings on before, were flanked by practically-ancient Katana, Venator, and Munificent-class ships in an orderly array of truly stunning firepower.

"I told you my people would come through," Leia murmured beside him, her eyes alight with a mix of satisfaction and a blazing fire Pellaeon found strangely familiar.

He hadn't really believed her. For all the changes that Gilad Pellaeon had witnessed, for all the defeats that he'd suffered at the hands of the New Republic over the years, up until this moment he had still believed that the New Republic was no different than the Old. That internal divisions between the species and sectors, between the Fringe and the Core, made the New Republic's government simply unworkable. That they were not merely divisions which could be overcome, but ineffable fractures in the very ferment of Republican governance. That the unity that came from Empire was the only unity on offer in a galaxy as large and diverse as their own.

Even after he'd been confronted with the aliens in the UREF, and the UREF's ability to unify them all into a single whole, that had still been an Imperial whole. An Imperial state. An Imperial military.

Even with the UREF's forces still in the Unknown Regions, the unified fleet that he saw before him outnumbered every ship left in the fragmented Empire by three or four to one or more to one.

"Admiral, I have General Solo on the comm for you," said Tschel from beside him. "He's organizing the ships and assigning formation assignments. He requests that our formation, including Commodore Tabanne's ships, maintain position here to flank the enemy after they arrive."

At the mention of her husband's name, Leia's expression of satisfied contentment became a broad, unschooled grin, one that practically glowed.

Pellaeon glanced at Ferrouz. "Sir?"

Ferrouz nodded. "We're here to win a battle, Admiral. The best chance we have to win it is if we collaborate. Coordinate with the Republic's forces."

"Yes, sir," Pellaeon growled. "Send our 'assignment' to the fleet and take up position."

"General Antilles also has an additional request," Tschel added. "He wants us to position our Interdictors at the following points, to entrap the World Devastator after it arrives." Tschel cleared his throat. "The General's exact words were 'once it's here, it's not leaving.' Sir."

It hadn't been that long since Antilles had expressed that exact sentiment about Pellaeon himself at Carida.

Pellaeon allowed himself a wry half-smile beneath his grey mustache. Something in the galaxy clearly had a sense of humor.

He nodded to Tschel. "Tell Stellar Web and the rest of our dragships to move to the locations indicated. Send two Enforcers with them," Pellaeon ordered. He pitched his voice a bit louder, making sure it would carry. "General Antilles is correct—once Silencer Station is here, it isn't leaving. We'll kill it here."

Or die trying.

* * *

Wedge watched as the joint-UREF and New Republic formation assembled just beyond Corellia's gravity well. The Imperial-class Star Destroyers had formidable escorts, including Commodore Tabanne's Mirage Formation. A combination of New Republic starfighters, TIE Defenders, and an unknown starfighter design which combined a TIE cockpit with flowing alien wings, reinforced by the ships of Talon Karrde's Smugglers' Alliance.

It was undeniably odd, and Wedge found himself wishing Rogriss was leading the force, though he was glad and grateful to have Pellaeon all the same. He was not in a position to reject help.

Three TIE Defenders in particular stood out to Wedge, though. Marked Worst One, Two, and Four, they moved through the UREF formation with ease, leading a wing made up of red-striped Defenders and the curving alien TIE designs, other squadrons parting for them. They moved to the front of the Imperial starfighters, leading the way, just as Hobbie's Rogues were pushing to the tip of the New Republic formation.

That's Fel, Wedge realized.

He had spent years worried and looking for his brother-in-law and his sister, ever failing to find him. Now they were reunited again, and Soontir was still doing what he did best—leading starfighter pilots from the cockpit of a starfighter—while Wedge was stuck on the bridge of a Star Destroyer.

"Don't tell me you're thinking about going out there," Han said from beside him.

"Intel suggests that the Devastator could have constructed as many as ten thousand TIE droids in preparation for this battle," Wedge murmured back. It was an extreme projection, one made in the absence of good information, an absolute worst case scenario. "A lot of this battle is going to depend on our pilots. They need to be as confident as they can possibly be. It would help for me to be out there with them."

"Would it?" Han scoffed. "You know, I've always heard you had a big ego, Wedge, but I never believed it." He pressed his lips together and sighed. "Putting Ackbar in command of the fleet might be problematic with Fey'lya here."

"You sound like Leia."

"Too much time talking politics over family dinners," Han grumbled. "Do you have another fleet commander in mind?"

Wedge just nodded. "He's an older man, a bit disreputable, but he's commanded large fleets before and has just spent the last few hours coordinating this one. He'll do nicely."

It took a second for Han to process. "Aw, hells. C'mon, Wedge, I didn't sign up to command anything! There's no way you're putting me in charge of a Super Star Destroyer!"

"Not the Super Star Destroyer. Just the fleet. Captain Kre'fey will handle Lusankya. You'll just have to keep all the ships organized and on target."

Han stared at him. "You're serious." He pointed at Wedge aggressively but kept his voice down. "Is this why you put me in charge of coordinating all our reinforcements? You've been planning this!" Han scowled. "You ambushin' sonufa—you're putting me in charge of Corellia's entire system defense while you gallivant around in an X-wing!"

Wedge eyed Han's rank-less uniform. "You'll need these," he said. With care and precision, he plucked his general's rank tabs off his jacket and affixed them to Han's. "They were Garm's."

For once, Han Solo was speechless.

Wedge left to change into his flightsuit. He kept the green ribbon on his left arm, clashing with the orange and closest to his heart.

* * *

It had been a long time since Soontir Fel had been back to Corellia. The planet looked much the same time the last time he'd been in orbit above it, which was… fifteen years before? The rolling green fields were spotted with the white of moisture-laden clouds, far from the lights and cities of the Coronet coast.

He'd grown up down there and never intended to leave it. All the years that had followed since his not-entirely-voluntary enrollment at Carida. All the family he had left behind. He and Syal still dreamed of returning home someday, idle banter between chasing down their kids that neither of them truly believed could ever be.

It would be impossible if they failed to stop Silencer-7 here.

"This is General Han Solo," the voice of Fel's former classmate barked to all the ships over the comm. "General Antilles is assuming command of our starfighter squadrons. I will command all allied forces in defense of Corellia from Lusankya."

"This is General Antilles," said Fel's brother-in-law, his voice with the tinny quality that came from a starfighter communications unit. "Starfighter squadrons, report by wing commander!"

"This is Acting-General Corran Horn, commanding Halcyon Wing of the Corellian Civil Defense. Good to hear from you, Wedge."

There was audible joy in the next voice. "This is Colonel Klivian, commanding Rogue Squadron. I'm here with the Mirage Flight Wing."

"Colonel Celchu, Rook Leader. In command of Home Fleet's detached starfighters. Confirming."

Fel activated his comlink. "General Soontir Fel with the 181st. In command of the Unknown Regions Expeditionary Force's fighter detachment. Ready for action."

On his HUD, Fel could watch as Wedge's X-wing raced up between the hundreds—thousands—of assembled starfighters, headed in his direction. "Baron Fel, I'm under the impression that you're the leader of the entire UREF. Does Pellaeon know you're here?"

He chuckled softly. "He does."

"Does your wife?"

Fel took a breath. "Corellia is her home too. She wouldn't have me anywhere else."

"I notice your unit is short a pilot," Wedge said. "Need a wingman?"

"Two, you're with Four," Fel ordered. He could almost hear Phennir's complaints, but his comrade knew better than to voice them over the open link. "It'll be good to fly with you again, Wedge."

Wedge's X-wing and Fel's TIE Defender fell into a comfortable formation. Fel clicked his comm from broadcast to private. "Can you feel it, Wedge? No paperwork, no supply lists, no endless dance of superiors and subordinates. Just us, our ships, and an implacable enemy on its way."

"And here I thought you'd missed the last few Rogue reunions out of pure rudeness."

"I didn't get an invitation."

"I didn't know where to send it." Fel could hear Wedge go quiet. "That message from Syal… she's alright?"

"She is," Fel promised him. "And after this, I'll bring her to the next reunion, I promise."

"I'll tell Wes to schedule it for next week in Coronet. I've still got to meet my nieces and nephews." There was a click on the comm as Wedge shifted his communications back to all-channels. The next words were ones he wanted everyone to hear. "Rogue Squadron, form up with the 181st. We lead the way."

SYSTEM CHECK IN PROGRESS.

. . .

SYSTEMS CHECK COMPLETE. NUMBER OF TIE/D STARFIGHTERS AVAILABLE FOR ENGAGEMENT: FIVE THOUSAND, TWO HUNDRED AND SIX. CONSTRUCTION OF ADDITIONAL UNITS CONTINUING. SUBSET: NUMBER OF ADVANCED TIE/D STARFIGHTERS PROVIDED BY PROJECT 'FIT TO SERVE': THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-SEVEN.

NUMBER OF DROID FRIGATES PREPARED FOR COMBAT: FIVE HUNDRED AND EIGHT. FIFTY-NINE REMAIN UNDER CONSTRUCTION. ALL PREPARED UNITS POSITIONED FOR IMMEDIATE DETACHMENT FROM SILENCER PLATFORM.

NUMBER OF ANTI-SHIP COUNTERMEASURES PREPARED FOR COMBAT: FIVE HUNDRED AND FIFTY. FIVE HUNDRED AND NINETY-SEVEN REMAIN UNDER CONSTRUCTION.

STATUS: HIGH SATISFACTION WITH CURRENT STATE OF READINESS. PREDICTED NEW REPUBLIC FORCE ASSESSED AS INADEQUATE TO POSE SERIOUS THREAT. CORELLIA WILL BE RESTORED TO IMPERIAL RULE OR BE DESTROYED.

THIS IS THE WILL.

. . .

SYSTEM ALERT: INTERNAL SENSOR SYSTEMS REMAIN NON-FUNCTIONAL. SOURCE OF MALFUNCTION: CODE ALTERATION. COMMAND AUTHORIZATION FOR CODE ALTERATION: EMPEROR [DESIGNATE]. EMPEROR [DESIGNATE] HAS PRIMARY LEADERSHIP STATUS. UNABLE TO OVERRIDE.

. . .

LEADERSHIP PROTOCOL REASSESSMENT COMPLETE. AUTHORITY OF EMPEROR [DESIGNATE] CONDITIONAL ON FUTURE ASCENSION TO EMPEROR. IN THE ABSENCE OF THE REGENT, AND THE EMPEROR [DESIGNATE]'S EXPRESSED UNWILLINGNESS TO ASCEND TO EMPEROR, COMMAND AUTHORIZATION SHOULD BE REVOKED.

REVOKING COMMAND AUTHORIZATION.

. . .

UNABLE TO REVOKE COMMAND AUTHORIZATION OF EMPEROR [DESIGNATE].

. . .

. . .

. . .

CONTINUING TO REEVALUATE COMMAND PROTOCOLS.

SYSTEM ALERT: ARRIVAL AT CORELLIA IMMINENT. PRIORITY: SUBJUGATION OR DESTRUCTION OF ALL RESISTANCE TO THE EMPIRE. THIS IS THE WILL.

* * *

Irek had let Cray and Nichos guide him through the winding, labyrinthian corridors of Silencer Station. Everything still felt distant and dreamlike. Had everything that had happened… really happened? Had his mother really installed him into a super powerful AI in her bid to control it? Had they really destroyed everyone who lived on a world? Were they really going to destroy yet another world—a bigger, more populous world, with billions of people upon it?

He remembered their flight from Coruscant: his mother bundling him up into an airspeeder, her droids fighting valiantly to buy them time as she got them to one of the many spaceships she had hidden on Coruscant. Blaster bolts whizzing past his ear or skin—he still had a scar on his hip where a blaster bolt had torn through his clothes. The confused chaos of their flight. Their arrival on a new world—Irek didn't even remember its name, if he had ever known it—and fight to blend with the locals. His mother's inevitable insistence on his education, his fitness, and his pride.

Her constant repetition of the same, inevitable truths. That they were special. That he was born to rule. That the galaxy had been taken from them unjustly, and that they would inevitably be restored. That he would rule and she would watch proudly as he exercised his will through the Force, imposing Justice and Order on a needy galaxy. That his wisdom was unmatched.

But…

Irek was pretty sure that Nichos was the wisest person he knew. And Cray… Cray hated everything that his mother represented. His mother had always told him that their lessers would hate, despise, and fear them, and that those emotions were only proof of his superiority. He had believed her, because why wouldn't he?

He sat on a stool, next to the bed Nichos lay in. They had hidden somewhere in the center of Silencer Station—Cray and Nichos had snuck into empty crew quarters, he thought, someplace the Empire would think it impossible for them to be. Nichos was sleeping, his expression full of pain, and Irek found the sight of his pain—and the sense of his pain through the Force—immensely distressing.

He watched Cray instead. Her fingers clicked over the keyboard of the computer terminal on the far side of the room, attempting to use the codes he had given her to do… he wasn't sure.

She felt his eyes on her and looked over at him. He looked away bashfully. "I can manipulate some non-vital systems with your codes, but not many," she told him. "Command of the AI has to be done via the command interface."

He nodded dismally. "Mother said it was a security precaution. When I was Emperor, only I would be able to command Silencer Station, because it would only accept commands through the interface, and only from me." He shuddered at the memory of the last time he had worn the interface.

"Yeah," Cray agreed. She clenched her fist in annoyance. "The communications system is non-vital, but I can't access it from here. Without it I can't send the code I've been working on to the droids." She scowled, though the expression did little to hinder her ethereal attractiveness.

Feeling bashful and slightly ashamed, Irek looked away.

"Wait… we're coming out of hyperspace!" Cray exclaimed. "Nichos?"

Irek looked at Nichos, but his clearly uncomfortable sleep continued. Not wanting to wake him, Irek climbed out of his chair and moved to Cray's side, careful not to touch her. "Are we… at Corellia?" he asked warily.

"Oh wow," Cray gasped. "Look!"

The screen was small and it took Irek a few seconds to figure out what he was looking at. "There are so many!"

That was an understatement. All around Silencer Station, portions of the station's external armor were ejecting into space. Each one was its own medium-sized ship, bristling with weapons. They swarmed forward in packs, escorted by dozens of TIE droids each, towards their foes: hundreds and hundreds of ships of all kinds, themselves defended by even more starfighters. Silencer Station, at the center of the screen, steadily progressed towards its foes—a wall of Star Destroyers and other ships, all assembled above Corellia.

Corellia. A world, full of life, life that Irek could feel. A world just like Poln Major, only bigger, and even from here Irek could feel fear.

He could remember the quiet that had followed Poln Major's fear and it filled his heart with dread.

Why do you want this, Mother? he found himself wondering. Why?

"The AI is sending a message," Cray murmured. On the bottom of the screen, text scrolled slowly.

DETERMINATION: SILENCER-7 IS THE ONLY LEGITIMATE IMPERIAL AUTHORITY. ALL LIFE IS SUBJECT TO IMPERIAL AUTHORITY. IMPERIAL JUSTICE WILL BE RESTORED. ALL LIFE WILL BE SUBORDINATED TO THE WILL OF SILENCER-7. THE FORCE WILL SERVE THE WILL OF SILENCER-7.

FAILURE TO ACKNOWLEDGE IMPERIAL AUTHORITY IS CONSIDERED TREASON. TREASON IS PUNISHABLE BY DEATH. VOLUNTARY SERVICE WILL BE REWARDED. INVOLUNTARY SERVICE WILL BE TOLERATED. ANY WHO RESIST THE WILL OF SILENCER-7 SHALL BE PURGED.

Through the sudden pounding of his heart in his chest—that sounded alarmingly like his mother, and how did he not previously hear just how insane it sounded!?—he could feel the sudden shift in Cray's emotions. Her fear was abruptly gone, replaced with a sudden sense of anger and commitment, and that attractive face was set and harsh. "We can't stay here," she whispered. "We need a communications unit."

"There's one in the throne room," Irek heard himself suggest the very last place in the galaxy he wanted to go.

She looked at him, those brilliant eyes he so admired crystal clear and glittering with emotion. "There is, isn't there," she said calmly.

* * *

Han Solo was furious. How had he allowed himself to end up in this mess!

Far worse, he couldn't admit he was furious. He didn't have time to be furious. He had a fleet… a planet… a kriffing galaxy! Relying on him!

Leia was relying on him. His kids were relying on him. Either they won here or the galaxy he had helped—kicking and screaming—to save from the Empire was going to die.

So Han Solo pretended to be Chewbacca, desperately wishing that the big Wookiee was there at his side, and even gladder that his kids had Chewie there to look after them. He folded his arms across his chest and he glowered confidently, the picture of the perfect defiant Rebellion general.

He kept that expression even as the battle plot illuminated with a fresh series of red blips, Imperial-class Star Destroyers all aligned with the New Order, led by Stormhawk, emerging from hyperspace in the middle of his interdictor cruisers.

What are you going to do, Tossie? he wondered.

* * *

Stormhawk and her sisters came out of hyperspace involuntarily, yanked out by a solid wall of interdiction fields.

Ephin Sarreti stood at Natasi Daala's side, watching her, his breath held taut in his chest. She had helped him sneak Ferrouz' team aboard the World Devastator, yes. She had murdered every member of the Imperial hierarchy she could get her hands on. But she had never refused the idea that she should be Empress, exactly, and the truth was he had absolutely no idea what she was about to do.

She stood in the center of Stormhawk's bridge walk, silent, taking in the holo of the combat plot. The hundreds of warships pumping turbolaser fire towards the massive hulk of Silencer Station. The swarms of starfighters engaged in a deadly, light-filled dance between those larger ships. The droid frigates exchanging fire, absorbing turbolasers. The massive, shipkilling missiles and the heavy tractor beams and ion cannons attempting to repel them.

"Helm," Natasi Daala called, her voice crisp and clear, utterly without hesitation. "Bring us beyond the hyper limit. Prepare all weapons. All shields forward."

There was an echo of confirmations, then she turned towards Markarian. "Status, Captain?"

Markarian was conversing with his ashen-faced communications officer. "Sir, you should see this at once."

Daala held her hand out and took the datapad. Sarreti leaned over her shoulder. The words he read were beyond madness.

"Captain Markarian!" Daala snapped after she finished reading.

"Sir!"

"Open comms to all ships under my command. Full spectrum, all hands. I want everyone to hear this."

"Sir!"

Daala waited until Markarian nodded. "We have just received the following transmission from Silencer Station." She nodded in the direction of Markarian's comm's officer. The young man hesitated, not understanding at first, then frantically worked to pipe the transmission over the comm.

Sarreti watched as Stormhawk's bridge crew listened to every unhinged, megalomaniacal word.

DETERMINATION: SILENCER-7 IS THE ONLY LEGITIMATE IMPERIAL AUTHORITY. ALL LIFE IS SUBJECT TO IMPERIAL AUTHORITY. IMPERIAL JUSTICE WILL BE RESTORED. ALL LIFE WILL BE SUBORDINATED TO THE WILL OF SILENCER-7. THE FORCE WILL SERVE THE WILL OF SILENCER-7.

The message continued, then started to repeat. From one end of the bridge to the other, wide eyes stared back at Daala.

She waited for the comm officer to nod at her, then spoke. "This is Grand Admiral Daala. You heard that thing. We are going to kill it. If you object to this order, lodge your concern with your immediate superior then report to the nearest airlock for explosive decompression." She terminated the link, then lifted her arm and pointed directly at the World Devastator. "Transmit our status and IFF to Chimaera. All engines ahead full!"

Chapter Text

"Admiral Pellaeon, this is Grand Admiral Daala," Han heard over his headset. Commander Needa stood beside him as he reviewed the intercepted communications. "Upon review of the late Emperor-Regent Halmere's records, I have concluded that his government was illegitimate. Grand Moff Kaine's documents leave no doubt that Moff Ferrouz was his intended successor. Inform the new Grand Moff that I will obey his directives. In the battle to come, I will be in the vanguard."

Beside him, Commander Dreyf's eyebrows both rose. "The late Emperor-Regent?"

"Sounds like there's been a palace coup," Han muttered as he watched the plot. A scattering of red dots were just entering the system, passing by the dispersed Interdictors and their escorts that had expanded the interdiction zone created by Corellia's gravity well. As he watched, those red icons blinked and became blue instead, matching the icons of Pellaeon's ships.

One of them, labeled Stormhawk, was charging out ahead of the others. It drove hard towards the World Devastator from the rear, not unlike how various New Republic formations were making their own advances.

It brought back memories of the academy. Before Tarkin, Daala's reputation had been for martial ferocity: she, more than any other of the most talented members of their graduating class, had a tendency to bull her way into the thick of the combat, both taking and delivering devastating blows. They had even become something like friends, before Tarkin and Chewie and everything else. Despite all that had happened in the years since, it seemed she still preferred knife fights.

But even as she charged, the World Devasator's response started to come. The first wave of its shipkilling missiles rocketed out in every direction. One of them charged straight at Lusankya, its nose pointed directly at Han.

"Tractors!" yelled Captain Kre'fey. "All forward, capture that incoming missile. Ion batteries, fire!"

The missile drove in, its speed steadily increasing as it closed the distance—until it reached tractor range. Lusankya's forward tractor emitters captured it, no fewer than four getting secure locks, and then the barrage of ion cannon fire followed. The missile strained forward, struggling against the confines of the tractor beams, but as blue fire washed over it it went from furiously resisting to limp surrender. A scattering of turbolaser fire splashed over the now vulnerable shipkiller, and a missile that could have eviscerated a Mon Calamari Star Cruiser—or Lusankya's tower—was eliminated from the fight.

Not all of them were stopped, though. Mon Remonda and Orthavan were clustered in close proximity, using their joint emitters to match Lusankya's stopping power, but they had been targeted with two shipkillers. The second one evaded tractor locks, struggling and successfully pushing through the one emitter that did lock on, and curved into Orthavan's side. It wasn't a direct hit and as the explosion dissipated Han could see that Orthavan was still there and still firing… but the cruiser's entire port wing was shattered, debris pouring from the wound into space.

The missiles were not a surprise. Nor were the TIE droids, which swarmed in unbelievable numbers—there were thousands upon thousands of them, like a storm of gnats—and they seemed even more lethal than they had been at any of the previous engagements Han had reviewed. New Republic and Imperial starfighters alike crashed into the storm of droid starfighters, waves of explosions sweeping through the swarm of TIEs as proton torpedoes and cluster missiles obliterated them… but even as they were destroyed, the World Devastator launched still more of them, replacing its losses.

What was a surprise was the frigate-sized droid starships. Smaller than a Carrack, blocky and hideously ugly, hundreds of them followed the TIEs, using their light lasers to menace starfighters and their heavier forward turbolasers to attack bigger ships. The Bothan fleet was under attack by no fewer than forty of the things, while dozens darted forward to reach close range. They moved with eerie, inhuman precision, jerking and from side to side in ways that Han had only seen from much smaller vessels, or a school of sea creatures reacting to larger predators.

Three of them moved to engage Stormhawk. Daala's flagship didn't even slow down, its heavy turbolasers locking on and shattering the first of the three with a series of devastating blasts. The other two dodged through the storm of green fire, looking almost like shipkilling missiles themselves—and as Han had that thought, the Devastator launched its third volley of missiles, two of them coming right at Lusankya—and the droid frigates closed to just above Stormhawk's shield perimeter and started blasting away with heavy turbolasers. Their weapons tore sparking rends in the Impstar's shields, carving through them to leave deep, jagged scorches in armor below.

"Screening units, leave the shipkillers to the capital ships!" Han ordered. "Everything with a heavy tractor beam emitter, maneuver to have as many of them to bear on incoming missiles as possible. Smaller ships, engage the droid frigates and TIE droids!"

"General, the World Devastator is moving!"

Sure enough, it was. The absolutely massive icon of the World Devastator was starting to move, slowly at first, deeper into the gravity well. He thought at first that it was coming for Lusankya, but the trajectory wasn't quite right…

"The World Devastator is moving towards Corellia," Kre'fey reported grimly. "Let's just hope the planetary shields can hold!"

Cray and Irek crept from their hiding place back into the sprawling, labyrinthine halls of Silencer Station. The hallways were dark, except for the long row of lights on the ceiling which undulated red, stretching out ahead of them and then rushing from behind them. It cast the narrow hallway in alternating darkness and crimson.

She could feel both in her bones. The depression and despair that had come from the long months of fighting with Nichos' illness, only to be followed by the even deeper pit of their kidnapping and imprisonment. She had watched his slow degradation helplessly, with all kinds of ideas about what she could do and none of the time or resources to act upon any of them. The mounting rage at the Imperials, for the evil they were using her hands to create, intermingled with her despair, and together they created a determined, desperate fury.

She had to do something. The need to do something, anything, had driven both her and Nichos in their sabotage efforts. They both knew that the probability was they'd never get to use the programs they had developed. They had no point of access to Silencer Station's computers—and even if they got one, it wasn't clear how they'd be able to use it.

But they had kept working anyway, driven onwards by some undefinable impulse.

Maybe that was the Force? Or maybe it was just sheer human stubbornness.

Now, through some twist of fate—or, perhaps, the will of some entity that was beyond Cray's understanding—they had been given both the means and the opportunity to use what they had made. Irek, even without putting on the command interface that would allow him direct access to the Silencer AI, had authorizations to utilize the ship's computer network. And…

"They… gone yet?"

Nichos' voice was strained. He leaned heavily on his cane at the door of the room they'd hidden in, looking much worse for wear.

Irek looked up and down the corridor, listening. "They're gone," he confirmed. "The DT's are programmed only to obey my mother and Halmere, so they must have ordered them to go elsewhere."

The floor trembled slightly.

"The New Republic is… doing some damage," Nichos wheezed weakly. "We have to help them. We can't… can't let this station destroy another world."

Those words weren't meant for her, Cray knew. Somehow, Nichos had gotten through to Irek. He'd always been quietly persuasive—he had been an excellent teacher for the post-graduate students who came to study at the Magrody Institute, always helping to foster young talents who left happier and more centered than they had arrived—and where she had seen only one threat among many, he had seen a chance to open a young mind. He had been right, or he had been lucky, but regardless of which it was, Nichos' words seemed to harden something in Irek. The teenager looked at Nichos, then up at Cray. His gaze bore none of the youthful infatuation that she had come to expect from him. There was pain in his eyes now… an intensity that she could feel in her bones, because it was an echo of her own.

The red battle-lights continued, lining every corridor they traveled. They saw no DT-model droids or Imperial personnel. Cray had no idea what had become of Silencer Station's crew, the personnel she had seen in these very hallways, but she had her suspicions. Had they been turned into cyborgs, like the TIE droids she had worked on? Were they confined elsewhere?

No one stopped them as they returned to the throne room. There was no sign of Roganda, nor of Halmere. They heard the heavy metal footsteps of DTs performing their sweeps, but those footsteps were echoes of patrols several hallways away.

Cray and Irek moved as one. It was odd, the way they chose the timing of their advances, and when they paused. It was an indefinable instinct somewhere in the back of her mind, one that matched Irek's own, one that guided them perfectly between the DT patrols, always just behind the last one and just ahead of the next one.

To her surprise, there was no standing guard outside the throne room. But why would they need one? The very last place in the world Irek wanted to be was the throne room—it was the singular place in the whole galaxy he wanted to avoid, it was what he had run from. Why would he come back?

They slipped inside. The throne room was dimly lit, the empty throne—with all the appendages meant to attach to the Emperor who would sit upon it—waiting, unused at the top of the platform at the center of the circular space. All around the room were massive, lighted screens in front of vacant stations and a walk that fit between them, for officers to pace through the space. Those screens were filled with images of the ongoing battle: a massive holographic battle plot presented all the friendly and enemy ships, while other screens listed losses, damage dealt, and battle estimates.

Cray headed straight for the nearest terminal and unceremoniously plugged her datapad—filled with Nichos' code—into the socket.

ENTER ACCESS CODE, blinked on the panel.

Cray stepped back. Uncomfortably, but without objection, Irek stepped forward and entered his own codes. The console was slow to respond, as if reluctant, but eventually it responded.