Chief of Defense???

More authority for the Chancellor. Fewer committees obstructing military decisions. Temporary measures that could be expanded whenever the war produced another convenient crisis.

Unfortunately, every new power creates regulations, and every regulation creates administrative responsibilities.

Strategic deployment requests.

Fleet supply authorizations.

Planetary-defense disputes.

Appeals from generals who object to other generals receiving better equipment.

Complaints from senators whose systems are simultaneously too important to defend with local resources and too culturally significant to host Republic troops.

Palpatine signs another document and adds Senator Orn Free Taa’s infrastructure request to the rejection pile.

The Twi’lek requested heated landing platforms.

Ryloth is a desert.

Palpatine rubs his temple.

He is beginning to understand why certain... political factions criticize excessive bureaucracy.

They remain irritating, but perhaps not entirely wrong.

“Your Excellency,” Mas Amedda says from the opposite side of the office, “the Office of Military Coordination has returned the western-sector deployment proposal.”

“Why?”

“They require clarification regarding whether its authority derives from Emergency Defense Regulation Seven or Strategic Mobilization Regulation 12.”

“It derives from my signature.”

“They found that insufficient.”

Palpatine looks at him.

Mas Amedda wisely lowers his eyes.

Another stack of reports waits on the side table. These concern Ryloth, a worthless dustball whose liberation has somehow become the Republic’s latest celebrated victory.

The campaign should have consumed troops and resources for years.

Instead, it ended in two months.

Palpatine read the summary. The victory is attributed to improved fleet coordination, precision logistics, and the temporary reassignment of CC-1010.

He does not remember authorizing that.

CC-1010 belongs on Coruscant.

The clone is useful here. It absorbs punishment well, understands silence, and possesses just enough independence to make crushing that independence entertaining.

Palpatine remembers signing hundreds of reassignment orders during the Ryloth crisis. One of them must have included the Guard commander’s designation.

An irritating oversight.

At least the thing returned to Coruscant.

“Who currently handles military coordination?” Palpatine asks.

Mas Amedda consults his datapad. “Technically, you do.”

“I am aware of what the regulations say.”

“Then the answer remains you.”

Palpatine’s gaze returns to the towers of paperwork.

Emperors delegate.

That is the purpose of subordinates. They carry out tedious functions while their superiors concentrate on matters worthy of genuine attention, such as corrupting the Jedi Order and arranging a galactic war.

He opens the Ryloth commendation file.

CC-1010’s record is more substantial than he recalls.

Marshal Commander of the Coruscant Guard. ARC certification. Strategic command training. Advanced logistics. Fleet coordination. Distinguished performance on Geonosis. Recent command activity on Ryloth.

The clone has already been doing much of the work Palpatine wishes to discard.

Convenient.

“Is the position of High Marshal Commander still listed in the military regulations?”

Mas Amedda searches.

“It appears so.”

“Occupied?”

“No, Your Excellency. The office has been vacant for more than two thousand years.”

“Responsibilities?”

“Supreme strategic oversight of Republic armed forces, coordination between planetary defense authorities, control of military logistics, and advisory access to the executive office.”

Palpatine smiles faintly.

A ceremonial relic with an impressive title.

Perfect.

“Create a clone equivalent.”

Mas Amedda looks up. “A clone equivalent?”

“The Senate will object if I revive a civilian office and fill it with military property. Phrase it as a temporary wartime appointment.”

“What title?”

Palpatine looks at the Ryloth report again.

Chief of Defense sounds important enough to satisfy the military and vague enough that no senator will immediately understand it.

“High Marshal Commander, Chief of Defense of the Grand Army of the Republic.”

Mas Amedda begins entering the language.

“And the scope of authority?”

“Internal security coordination, strategic logistics, battlefield resource allocation, and routine defense administration.”

“How much executive clearance?”

Palpatine gestures toward the paperwork.

“Enough that these reports stop reaching my desk.”

Mas Amedda hesitates.

“Your Excellency, broad clearance may grant the office authority over fleet commanders, admirals, and Jedi generals.”

“Then perhaps they will stop sending me their petty disputes.”

“It may also permit the Chief of Defense to issue emergency directives without prior Senate approval.”

“Temporary directives.”

“Under the existing High Marshal regulations, temporary may extend until the end of an active war.”

Palpatine stares at the unread documents threatening to consume the corner of his office.

“Acceptable.”

Mas Amedda’s fingers move across the datapad.

“Shall I arrange a formal appointment ceremony?”

“No.”

“A private audience?”

“No.”

“The Senate may expect an announcement.”

“They may read the notice.”

Mas Amedda inclines his head. “Of course.”

Palpatine activates the secure military channel.

The transmission takes several moments to connect.

A clone appears in blue holographic light.

Full dress whites. Guard-red piping. Black hair beneath a regulation cap. One command rope hangs from the shoulder.

Palpatine barely looks at the details.

The clone resembles every other male unit produced from the Fett template. CC-1010’s armor is more recognizable than its face, but requiring full battle dress for a simple administrative promotion would waste additional time.

The clone salutes.

“Your Excellency.”

Palpatine studies the file rather than the hologram.

“CC-1010.”

A pause follows.

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

The voice sounds slightly different from what Palpatine remembers.

Fatigue, perhaps.

The Ryloth campaign has likely strained the thing.

“You have provided exemplary internal-security coordination and logistics support during the liberation of Ryloth.”

The clone remains very still.

“Thank you, Your Excellency.”

“You are therefore being rewarded with an immediate promotion.”

The clone’s eyes flicker.

Palpatine senses confusion through the Force.

Good.

Confusion makes obedience easier.

“Effective immediately, you will hold the rank of High Marshal Commander and the Office of Chief of Defense of the Grand Army of the Republic.”

The clone says nothing.

Palpatine looks up from the file.

“Do you understand?”

The clone’s mouth opens.

Then closes.

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“You will assume responsibility for strategic military coordination, internal defense administration, deployment review, logistics approval, and such other duties as are defined in the attached regulations.”

“Understood.”

The clone sounds as though it understands nothing.

That is hardly unusual.

Palpatine continues.

“You will report to the executive office when requested. Routine matters are to be handled independently.”

The clone’s gaze shifts briefly to something outside the projection.

Perhaps another Guard officer is present.

Palpatine does not care.

“Your service on Ryloth has demonstrated that even a unit of your nature may provide value beyond its original assignment.”

The clone’s expression empties.

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

There.

That familiar submission.

CC-1010 has always been easy to return to stillness.

Palpatine signs the appointment order and sends it through the secure channel.

The transmission confirms receipt.

“Your first administrative review is due within ten standard days.”

The clone glances downward, presumably at the document.

“One question, Your Excellency.”

Palpatine’s irritation stirs.

“What?”

“Does this appointment supersede my current command authority?”

“Obviously.”

The clone becomes even more motionless.

Palpatine interprets that as comprehension.

“The regulations will answer any further questions,” he says. “Do not trouble my office with details that fall within your new jurisdiction.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

The clone salutes again.

Palpatine ends the transmission before it can speak further.

Silence returns to the office.

Mas Amedda finishes processing the regulations.

“The appointment is now active.”

“Good.”

A notification appears on Palpatine’s desk.

214 pending reports have been transferred to the Office of the Chief of Defense.

The stack displayed on his screen shrinks by nearly half.

Palpatine leans back in satisfaction.

“Efficient.”

Mas Amedda studies the final regulation.

“There is an unusual clause here.”

Palpatine closes the Ryloth file.

“Then amend it later.”

“It grants the Chief of Defense independent executive authority during active threats to the Republic.”

“Necessary for emergency coordination.”

“It may also allow the officeholder to countermand civilian or military directives deemed harmful to strategic defense.”

Palpatine glances at the remaining paperwork.

CC-1010 is a clone.

It follows orders.

Whatever authority the regulations technically grant, the thing will never imagine using it against him.

“Leave it.”

Mas Amedda bows.

“As you wish.”

The paperwork is no longer Palpatine’s problem.

That is all that matters.

Thorn discovers that a harmless bureaucratic typo has quietly handed Fox enough authority to rearrange the Republic. Unfortunately, Fox is asleep, armed, and notoriously hostile to surprise visitors.

Thorn stands outside Fox’s bunk with one hand hovering over the door controls.

He's been standing there for three minutes.

This is not cowardice. It's... tactical assessment. Yeah, let's go with that.

Fox is asleep. They checked twice.

Thorn made Stone verify the bunk’s occupancy sensor, then ordered Thire to check the internal security feed because Fox has previously escaped mandatory rest by stacking blankets beneath the sheet and crawling into a ventilation shaft.

The feed shows Fox lying facedown across his bunk, still wearing his fatigue trousers and undershirt. One boot is on the floor. The other still on his foot. A blaster rests within reach beside the pillow.

The man slept fewer than eight hours across the past four weeks. He returned from Ryloth, submitted his preliminary campaign report, glared at three officers who attempted to congratulate him, and collapsed into bed before Thorn could formally return command of the Guard.

Technically, Thorn is still acting Marshal Commander.

Technically, that is why he answered the Chancellor’s holocall.

Technically, impersonating Fox had been the easiest solution available.

The Chancellor had summoned CC-1010 with no warning. Fox was unconscious for once, and waking him for what appeared to be a routine commendation seemed cruel. Thorn already wore dress whites for the post-campaign review. From a distance, the only obvious differences were the number of ropes at his shoulder and the absence of Fox’s Flying Star.

Fox wore two Guard-red ropes as Marshal Commander. Thorn wore one as a commander. Both received the Silver Star after Geonosis. Their dress uniforms used the same cut, their hair was the same regulation black, and Palpatine barely looked at clones when speaking to them.

Thorn had saluted, lowered his voice, and attempted to look as tired and hostile as Fox naturally did.

Apparently, he succeeded.

Now Fox is the Chief of Defense of the Republic.

Thorn looks down at the datapad in his other hand.

The promotion order still hasn’t become less absurd.

HIGH MARSHAL COMMANDER, CHIEF OF DEFENSE.

EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.

OFFICEHOLDER: CC-1010.

Thorn had initially assumed the Chancellor’s staff had made a minor clerical error.

The regulation’s title reads:

CHIEF OF DEFENSE, CLONE EQUIVALENT OF HIGH MARSHAL COMMANDER.

A strange phrase, but bureaucracy is full of strange phrases. Somewhere in the Republic archives is probably a 40-page regulation defining the acceptable curvature of military spoons.

Why specify “clone equivalent” when the appointment is clearly intended for a clone?

Then Thorn read the actual text.

The words clone equivalent never appear again.

Every following section refers simply to the Chief of Defense.

Not an imitation of the position.

Not a lesser version adapted for military property.

The position itself.

The regulations assume the officeholder is a natborn citizen. They reference executive privileges, political advisory authority, and the right to speak before the Senate. They grant access to civilian intelligence records that clones are normally prohibited from knowing exist.

Thorn read the lines surrounding the appointment.

Then he opened the associated emergency powers.

Then he sat down very slowly.

The Chief of Defense holds supreme strategic authority over every branch of the Grand Army of the Republic.

Every clone commander reports to Fox.

So does every natborn admiral.

Jedi generals remain independent in spiritual and internal Order matters, but military deployments, battlefield objectives, supply allocation, and planetary defense fall beneath the Chief’s authority.

Fox can override them.

The thought is so beautiful Thorn nearly weeps.

There's more.

During an active threat to the Republic, the Chief of Defense may issue executive military directives without prior Senate approval.

He may compel planetary cooperation.

He may suspend military contracts.

He may seize strategic assets.

He may classify investigations beyond ordinary senatorial review.

Under emergency conditions, he may even countermand the Chancellor when an executive order presents an immediate danger to Republic defense.

Thorn read that section seven times.

He made Thire read it.

Thire accused him of altering the text.

Stone read it next, said, “That seems dangerous,” and immediately began compiling a list of prison reforms Fox could now authorize without waiting for the Judicial Committee.

Fox could go behind the Chancellor’s back.

Pain pulses through Thorn’s right temple.

He freezes outside the bunk.

The sensation resembles a drill touching bone.

Not yet boring through, only pressing hard enough to warn him.

A warm line slips from his right nostril.

Thorn wipes it with the back of his hand and stares at the blood streaking his knuckles.

His thoughts scatter.

The Chief could investigate executive interference in Guard operations.

The drill presses harder.

He could refuse punishment orders.

Pain flashes behind Thorn’s eye.

He could stop the Chancellor from calling Fox into those private meetings.

The hallway tilts.

Thorn grips the datapad until its casing creaks.

He isn’t thinking anything disloyal.

The promotion came from the Chancellor himself. The authority is legal. The regulations are signed, sealed, and active across the military network.

Fox has been ordered to possess these powers.

Good soldiers follow orders.

The pain eases.

Thorn breathes carefully through his mouth. Blood continues to drip from his nose, but the thoughts in his head have become smoother and quieter.

He looks back at the door.

Fox needs to know.

Preferably before the Senate discovers the appointment and sends four hundred requests to the new office. The notification has already propagated through GAR command channels. Cody called twice. Wolffe sent a message consisting entirely of question marks. Bly wants to know whether Fox can now reject General Secura’s mission requests, though Thorn suspects that question is part of an unrelated domestic dispute.

Ponds sent the most sensible message.

IS THIS REAL?

Thorn replied:

UNFORTUNATELY.

He raises his hand toward the door control.

Then stops.

Waking Fox is like playing Bounty Hunter Roulette.

The rules are simple. Override the door, enter the room, and discover which nearby object Fox will throw before recognizing the intruder.

Previous projectiles include a boot, a datapad, an empty ration container, a field knife, and Stone’s helmet.

Stone still claims the helmet incident was intentional.

The blaster beside Fox’s pillow raises the current difficulty level considerably.

Thorn opens the internal comm channel instead.

“Fox.”

No response.

“Marshal Commander.”

Fox doesn’t move on the security feed.

“Fox, I need you awake.”

A low sound comes through the room’s audio pickup.

It may be a growl.

Thorn considers retreating and sending Thire.

That would be irresponsible.

It would also be very funny.

He glances down the corridor. Thire and Stone are both waiting around the corner, pretending not to watch.

Thire gives him an encouraging thumbs up.

Stone makes a throwing motion toward his face.