Grand Admiral

Nine years, six months, and the twenty-second day after the Battle of Yavin…

Or the forty-fourth year, six months, and the twenty-second day after the Great Resynchronization.

While the Lambda-class shuttle—once Palpatine's own—surged downward through the atmosphere of Lianna, flanked by two flights of crimson-painted TIE interceptors, leaving behind the armored underbelly of the Chimaera, I sat alone by the shuttle's square viewport, watching as the ship's engines carried me farther and farther from this wondrous new world.

Yet another cosmic world I'd visited in the seventy-five days since my appearance in this universe.

And, to be honest, only now did I find myself asking: "Aren't I a bit too calm?" No, in my former life I wasn't the kind of guy who smiled at the sun, strolled through the rain like a romantic, or brooded in the corner of my apartment cursing fate. 

I'm a phlegmatic sort. Not easily impressed or astonished by much. But at this moment, observing another new planet receding behind our craft, I noted—without emotion—that I felt nothing at all.

No awe at the colossal starships, no thrill at crossing paths with characters who stepped right off the pages of a book… Absolutely nothing. Just indifference. As though the entire galaxy—its intrigues, starship warfare (each ship akin to a small city from my old homeworld, powered by energy enough to sustain dear Earth)—none of it stirred me.

No emotions. At first I'd assumed the reason was my need to maintain composure and live up to Thrawn's image.

Now I realized all the more clearly that I barely needed to "act" the part. I had essentially become him, at least in my demeanor.

The deeper I delve into this universe's knowledge, the more meticulously I study the Galactic Empire's regulations, the easier it becomes to think in "local" terms. And what would have been, back on Earth, the pinnacle of human thought, I now perceive as just the way things are.

It appears that, for the sake of "acclimatization," my psyche chose a necessary psychological defense and cultivated acceptance of these new realities. There's simply no way back… Mentally, physically, or otherwise.

Though I still know nothing of why my consciousness ended up in this universe, or whether I'm here briefly or "for the long haul," it hasn't hindered my life in the slightest. In fact, I haven't even given much thought to what might become of me in a day, two days, five, ten, a month, a year, a decade…assuming I live that long, of course.

It seems my consciousness has fully implanted itself in the Grand Admiral's body. Now we are one entity. Still, no miracle has occurred; my knowledge of the Chiss remains forever closed to me. My mind and my memories remain my own. Only the body is his.

But the fact that I've grown prone to inexplicable introspection probably indicates my brain has decided to indulge in self-analysis—the beloved pastime of Slavic souls in their spare time: tormenting oneself with "what if" scenarios.

Yes… Hardly a pleasant occupation. Better to return to current affairs and events.

Our visit to Munto Codru didn't take long—leaving negotiations with the local leaders to Pellaeon, I visited the secret base. Impressive. A huge medieval castle left mostly vacant, which Imperial troops quietly convert—concealed from the locals—into a surveillance outpost, allowing us to track enemy movements from the Mon Calamari Sector down the Perlemian Trade Route. Not to mention the intelligence trove of that hidden lair…

Refueling our vessels using tanker craft saved us time in port, but still took a while—long enough for Outpost NL-1 to be fitted with the necessary hypertravel equipment and shipped off to the Makem Te system. Now two Strike-class medium cruisers, the Brisk and the Stately, along with a Tartan-class patrol cruiser, safeguard it besides the outpost.

Currently, because we must travel at the pace of slower orbital repair yards and defensive stations, the fleet moves behind the Chimaera and its four CR90 corvettes. I prudently withheld the detail that one corvette is being carried within the Chimaera's main hangar. There's no need for ordinary allies to know that.

The fortress-world Makem Te remains supportive of my initiatives. The New Republic would have a difficult time capturing it, should the idea cross their minds. The locals, loyal to the Empire, after a short negotiation showed an interest in bolstering their own security, and so offered us what support they could—though it amounted only to paying taxes on the business and other activity carried out on the planet. Most notably, the local spice trade by smugglers. Unlike other worlds with such business, here it's run effectively by the inhabitants themselves and legalized officially, raising monthly revenue for my nebulous polity to some fifteen million credits, a third of which is contributed by the sector worlds.

And…that reminded me of several other systems, like Trogon, Kelada, Columex, which supposedly hold Imperial status at present but remain ambiguous. They pay no taxes, existing as isolated enclaves, often alongside the New Republic's border. They've expressed interest in uniting under Thrawn's command, yet beyond formal statements of loyalty, nothing has come of it. And there's so much potential… Right now, I can defend them with my own fleet.

Hence, following Makem Te's example—and recalling Warlord Zsinj's advice—perhaps we can propose these enclaves accept protection in exchange for taxes. If I can bring monthly revenue from these sources to around fifty million Imperial credits, we might consider reintroducing stormtrooper salaries. Or call for general mobilization…bolster our heavy cruisers' crews not only with clones and volunteers but conscripts. True, their competence might be low, but with regular drills, training, practice… When I first took command of the fleet, even Joruus C'baoth's Battle Meditation couldn't prevent heavy casualties. Yet in the recent battle for the Hast Yards—bigger in every sense than the Ambush at Rugosa—we faced professional troops manning first-rate vessels, but our losses were relatively minor. Every line ship can be made battle-ready again in short order—especially if even one of the orbital repair stations reaches Tangrene intact. Crew members remain the only question…

But now, as the Chimaera hung in Lianna's orbit under the guns of several orbital defense stations (not to mention patrolling system ships and the enticing orbital docks bristling with turbolasers), my attention lay elsewhere.

Lianna Santhe.

A woman who controls the official production of TIE-series technology—and whose influence extends far beyond her home system.

And oh, the arrogance with which her secretary dealt with Pellaeon over a possible meeting. Well, one could hardly fault them for feeling they hold the upper hand where Imperials are concerned. Typically, the Empire comes begging for a few scraps of technology…

All I want from that woman is my own orbital assembly facility. The Empire had procured such before, for manufacturing TIE fighters. From what I recall, only one such assembly line existed, destroyed by Galen Marek—Starkiller—in the first The Force Unleashed game.

Negotiations between her company and my representative, Moff Ferrus, dragged on for ages with variable progress. Company managers put forth exorbitant demands: inflated pricing, huge lead times to build the assembly yard in the star system we'd chosen, production limits, hefty fees per fighter, interceptor, or bomber produced, the presence of overseers, and so forth… Even someone like me—unschooled in corporate diplomacy—sees it plainly: we are being politely told to go away. Far away and for good, with a polite smile.

We could keep sourcing technology from the Ciutric Hegemony, especially as the prince-admiral likely won't feast on his achievements for too long. Yet we have no guarantee that when the New Republic arrives to "restore order," that industry will remain unscathed. And if you consider its importance to my plans, it's a sorry prospect indeed—dismantling planet-based production lines is no simple matter. Though feasible.

Yes, when Palpatine returns, some tough questions will be asked: "So, where did it all go?" Not by the Emperor himself but by those around him. Having no satisfactory answer would be telling—"Thrawn squirreled some things away." Why, and for what? Those questions would grow like fungus. But an orbital yard, akin to the defensive stations, workshops, and shipyards, could be made mobile and concealed. Then whisked off, far from the territory where Palpatine's reborn Imperials will operate. We'd leave enough scrap to create a plausible cover…

I glanced at my datapad. The quickly filling progress bar indicated that the encrypted messages I'd exchanged throughout our voyage—messages to Moff Ferrus and other subordinates, including Moff Disra, with whom I'd scheduled a meeting after my return to Tangrene—were being deleted. Soon I'd hear his proposal firsthand. First, though, I had to prepare for it. His meeting with Mara Jade had already shown he can anticipate obvious moves, like the presence of recording devices. In my old life, even high-ranking counterintelligence agents sometimes neglected to carry scramblers during "conversations" with Fleet analysts, let alone a moff. Yet in this distant galaxy, that sort of device is also restricted, extremely pricey, and not openly available. Meaning Moff Disra takes pains to ensure no one can record or later produce his words as evidence. A cautious, cunning man indeed. Any dialogue with such a fellow demands thorough preparation. First and foremost, I must accept that none of his statements can be used as evidence—nor can mine. Witness testimony from people hiding behind a false wall is suboptimal. So I'll have to think carefully about how to achieve what I want…

During these last months, I realized I'd been "stacking up" tasks without the necessary subordinates. Consequently, I'd love to initiate the search for the Star Dreadnought Guardian, or the legendary treasure ship Sa Nalaor, right now. But at best, the people for such a job won't be "available" until the eighth wave of clones is finished—when we'll have enough scouts and counteragents for such large-scale expeditions. Concerning the Guardian, I suspect it's still out there, waiting with nearly three hundred thousand Imperial crew, needing repairs. As for the Sa Nalaor, it's been over twenty-five years since it vanished—nobody knows whether it's been found, whether it truly holds a fortune, or if it's just a legend. Either way, my plan is nearing its final stage. In just over three months, I can expect Palpatine's attack. By then I must "tie up all loose ends" and "exit the stage gracefully."

From up here, I gazed down on Lianna's pale-hued architecture, marked by a minimal use of angles and plenty of rounded transitions, columns, domes, and hemispheres, and reflected that this explicit contrast with the Empire's government style only adds to the planet's luster. Light shades in defiance of Imperial grays and harsh lines, broad thoroughfares, greenery where Imperials would favor narrow pedestrian causeways and monolithic identical structures… Indeed, this world has a beauty all its own.

What caught my eye most was the absence of large-scale industrial complexes among populated zones. No smokestacks in the middle of city blocks, no giant industrial facilities or hangars—quite a contrast from what I'd seen in the Ciutric Hegemony. And definitely for the better. No endless tangles of skyscrapers, unsightly spires, or ugly truncated pyramids and ziggurats.

I'm not sure if Lianna was always this pleasant and comfortable before Valless Santhe rose to power—the same woman I intend to meet—but to me personally, it's the finest, most appealing industrial world I've seen in the Galaxy Far, Far Away: spacious, bright, free of oppressive vibes…

I'd like to visit the Kuat Drive Yards to see how things compare on Kuat itself, but I doubt that after the assault on Kai Fel, the people there or the company's administration would welcome my presence.

Panoramas of the planet Lianna.

— Grand Admiral, — a young, uneasy voice rang out behind me. — I'm not sure I can fight properly in this outfit, and…

— You won't need to fight, Mister Fodeum Sabre De'Luz, — I answered, glancing back at the Jensaarai in his new, highly unusual getup. — Of course, provided you play your part as intended so that no one questions what's happening.

— I feel…awkward in all this, — the Jensaarai replied, shifting a massive black staff topped by a spike from one hand to the other. — The armor's heavy… The clothes are baggy and uncomfortable. The Jensaarai defender gear is far more pragmatic and functional.

I sighed, closed my eyes, silently counted to twenty, then opened them again, letting the breath escape through barely parted lips.

— Play your part, Mister Fodeum Sabre De'Luz, and all will be fine, — I reminded him. — It's simple enough: stand behind me and keep silent. Use the Force to detect any threats, which you should know far better than I do. Anyone attempting to interfere—just fling them aside with the Force. Without lethal results, obviously. But let them remember our arrival on Lianna for a long time.

— All right, I'll try, — came the displeased mutter from beneath the black helmet with a red visor.

— Don't try, Mister Fodeum Sabre De'Luz, — I said, affecting the tone of a certain small green Grand Master known in this galaxy, who remains worthy of reverent memory. — Do, or do not. There is no try.

The shuttle touched down on the landing platform. At the rear of the Lambda, nine stormtroopers of the 501st Legion's Fourth Squad, led by Sergeant TNH-0297, stirred. An escort detail bearing the proper identifying regalia atop their pristine armor.

We are surely being watched. The moment we step onto the platform, the show will begin.

If Prince-Admiral Delak Krennel reacted so sharply to my arrival flanked by an Imperial Guard and members of the 501st, then Lady Valless Santhe, with an influence far exceeding that of the Ciutric Hegemony's ruler, would certainly grasp that Grand Admiral Thrawn, Supreme Commander of Imperial Space, did not come merely to pay a social call when he's escorted by none other than the Emperor's Jedi hunter.

***

— Come in, Captain, — came the voice of the lord of the Tangrene residence the moment Antonius stepped across the threshold of the office.

— Captain Stormaer, reporting as ordered, Moff Ferrus, — the commander of the Sentinel said formally, halting at attention.

The Governor of the Morshdine Sector gave him a curious, somewhat amused look. Indeed, how could he fathom that discipline alone keeps Imperials from scattering in these tumultuous times? Discipline, plus faith in eventual victory under Grand Admiral Thrawn. But planetary and sector governors can't fully comprehend that—most secured their posts through intrigue and bribery. True veterans who truly served and grasp the importance of unity of command and moral fortitude in the Empire's weakest moments are few indeed.

Commander of the Interdictor-class ISD Sentinel, Captain Antonius Stormaer.

— Sit down, Captain, — the moff said more gravely, gesturing toward a chair before the desk, which was piled with datachips and flimsi documents. The mere sight told Antonius all he needed to judge Moff Ferrus's lack of discipline. — I'm glad your Sentinel finally reached Tangrene.

Stormaer said nothing. What was there to say? That they, too, were glad to finally be free of the miserable work of patching up a crippled ship? That during their layover at Lianna, neither he nor the crew got any proper rest, toiling round the clock so they could leave that base on schedule? That even during short hyperspace hops with a damaged reactor module, his already diminished crew, battered from the Ambush at Rugosa, remained on high alert, half-expecting all efforts to be for naught should the vessel break apart in mid-jump, like the many others that vanished without a trace?

— I have news from the yards regarding how soon your ship can be returned to service, — Moff Ferrus carried on, rummaging feverishly among his desk's clutter. — Where is it…? I was reading that slip just five minutes ago!

Antonius silently watched the man's search. At last, once the moff recovered the paper, a good ten minutes by Antonius's count, the Interdictor captain said nothing.

— All right then, — Moff Ferrus leaned back in his chair, scanning the text. — The Sentinel requires a near-total rebuild of the reactor module and energy distribution systems. It's a lengthy process, Captain. Our yards' specialists say they can't begin for three weeks—until they clear the current backlog of ship repairs, upgrades, and the new wave of Grand Admiral's vessels returning from the attack on the Hast yards. Already in queue are the Steel Aurora, a Neutron Star–class cruiser, plus one slip's engaged repairing a captured Star Destroyer… So you see, the Grand Admiral won't want your battle-capable crew sitting idle for too long.

Antonius remained silent.

— At present, there's an Imperial-class Star Destroyer at the yard's final fitting quay, — Moff Ferrus went on. — A "Mark One." Captain Erik Shohashi seized it from the Rebels during the Milagro system operation. The workers are installing the turret batteries and replacing damaged plating. The engines and internal systems are already done, standard hangar equipment restored…

Still Antonius stood mute. So far, he'd heard no proposition requiring a response.

— The Supreme Commander has issued orders, — Ferrus continued. — You are to assume command of that vessel. Members of your Sentinel crew will transfer under your authority as well. Further, I'm to inform you that you and your people have the Grand Admiral's commendation for the skillful boarding of an Acclamator II–class assault ship, plus saving your vessel and fulfilling all your assignments. It appears… — the moff offered a kindly grin, — you, like our Supreme Commander, have quite the appetite for trophies. Well, if the report is to be believed, you personally led the boarding party from your ship… — Antonius did not reply. The report was accurate, so the moff's remark was fair enough. — Present your roster to the quartermaster. There's also a cash bonus for all who participated in the operation. As I recall, you submitted a list while at Lianna…

Unexpected. A reassignment with potential promotion is commonplace for an Imperial soldier, but awarding money? That's alien to Imperial custom—unusual. Fulfilling one's duty while also…receiving a bonus…

Anyway, that's the higher-ups' business. There is a more critical matter:

— The staffing structure doesn't match, — Antonius said calmly. No drama or negativity—just a standard reallocation of personnel under Imperial regs, albeit on a larger scale.

— Excuse me? — the moff's eyebrows rose.

— Despite similar dimensions and crew numbers, the rosters for Imperial-class and Interdictor-class Star Destroyers aren't the same, — Stormaer clarified. Any officer knows that. Even a civilian with a grain of logic could figure it out. — The Sentinel, like any Interdictor in that class, carries fewer fighters, less weaponry, and a specialized team of grav-well projector operators—none of which an Imperial-class destroyer requires. I simply don't have enough pilots or gunners for it.

— Don't worry, — Ferrus smiled. — In the near future, around twenty thousand Fleet specialists will arrive at Tangrene.

— Reserves? — Antonius asked.

— No, — the governor said, turning to his computer. — Hmm… You have clearance for classified info, so I can tell you this. I see you signed a non-disclosure form… Yes, two years ago. Right. So, basically… — after his computer spat out a standard secrecy oath form, Antonius signed it reflexively. A formality, but necessary. He did note the text's changed phrasing, though—rather than "secret data of the Galactic Empire," it read, "secret data of the Armed and other Forces under the control of Grand Admiral Mitt'raw'nuruodo (Thrawn)." So that's the Supreme Commander's full name—no matter, just bureaucracy.

— Conscripted troops? — the former Sentinel commander pressed.

— In a sense, — Moff Ferrus replied evasively. — They're clones of current Fleet personnel. We've implanted all necessary knowledge in them, but they still need training to fulfill their roles. As you're aware, we get no real help from the Imperial Remnants beyond initial contact. They don't give us ships or manpower. The Grand Admiral solves problems by the most optimal means—and using clones is one such method.

Clones?! That's something new. Not since the Camino uprising—where the Empire's clone supplier revolted in the Old Republic's aftermath—had the Empire employed large-scale cloning. Afterward, the Imperial Military was manned by conscripts. So it's true that, in spite of Grand Admiral Thrawn's successes, the Remnants aren't supporting him in a final solution against the New Republic. Now it all makes sense why so many captured ships lie idle and why the Grand Admiral keeps buying vessels from pirates and hijackers: the Imperial Ruling Council simply refuses to help, not even with volunteers. Rumor had it that the grand admiral's fleet was to receive a nearly completed Star Destroyer from Bilbringi… Perhaps Orinda will renege on that as well? Cowardly hutts. They're terrified the grand admiral will surpass them in popularity with the troops, unify the Empire's fragments, and seize power from them.

For the first time in a while, the captain felt deep disgust for politics. He'd sworn an oath—though not specifically to the Imperial Ruling Council, but to the Emperor. How shameful! All Imperials ought to rally around the Grand Admiral to restore order, but instead these politicos cling to power…

Those who say the Remnants preserve little of the Empire but everything that needs purging are correct.

— Drills, — Captain Stormaer replaced emotion with a professional concept. Emotion wouldn't help, but a cool head might.

The moff nodded in agreement.

— That's no problem, — Antonius assured him. — I take it I have free rein under the Regulations to arrange training and practice alerts for the crew?

— Absolutely, — Moff Ferrus sighed. — Currently, the Grand Admiral hasn't assigned the ship any place in the schedule or any orders. I suppose that stays so until he returns to Tangrene and decides his next strategic move for the fleet. Consider this your time to prepare the crew, Captain.

What else could it be? They're handing him a Star Destroyer once in Rebel hands, at least partially, which must be thoroughly inspected for readiness, completeness, and combat viability. Sending it straight into action would be a death sentence if it met a comparable enemy.

Stormaer's men respected him for a reason: he weighs the risks to his crew and estimates the likely outcomes. The men always performed their tasks to the letter, producing results.

— Understood, sir, — he answered, voice still level. Being posted to command an Imperial—"Mark One" though it may be—was, in essence, a promotion. Slight, but still. — Permission to ask a question?

— Hm… — Ferrus tore his eyes from his papers, presumably thinking the captain would depart. — Go ahead, Stormaer. If I can answer, I will.

"If you even know the answer," Antonius mused.

— About the clones, sir, — he said bluntly. — Can they be trusted?

— Why do you ask? — The moff seemed taken aback. — They've been active in our forces for weeks now—both on the ground and aboard starships. There's been no single betrayal or anything like that.

— I prefer to trust my crew, sir, — Stormaer explained. — They trust me. If they were reserves or conscripts, I'd have no questions. But clones…I've never worked with them. I don't know what to expect.

— You could consult other captains, — the governor grumbled, then realized he'd said something foolish—no commander of a vessel receiving clones would speak openly of it, because the entire project is extremely classified. Stormaer only just learned that clones were reinforcing Thrawn's forces; he had assumed they were volunteers or manpower from other Imperial Remnants. He, like many, believed that Remnant warlords quietly supported Thrawn. But in reality…

— Sir, — Antonius said, again drawing the moff's attention. From his expression, Ferrus clearly disliked being interrupted. — The Grand Admiral has stated that Imperial ships once captured by the enemy and later reclaimed for service are no longer to bear their old names.

— Yes, that's correct, — the moff said with badly concealed irritation.

— In that case, the name of the Imperial Mark One assigned to me—did it have an older one at first? — Stormaer pressed.

— Captain, — the moff laid aside his documents, showing he had real work to do. And indeed, he'd prefer that to dealing with the largest naval officer on base. Still, by regulations, as the Grand Admiral's deputy he had to handle the reappointment in person. — Yes, your new ship has gone through a renaming procedure. The transponder is wiped and reprogrammed. The yard workers have removed all references to previous names. What else do you need?

— The new name, — replied the Star Destroyer's incoming commander. — I want to know what they call my new command.

— Ah, that, — Ferrus said. — You're hoping to invoke Bylaw 20-43/7? "The right of a captain and crew transferring from one vessel to another to rename it"? 

— If I dislike the new name, yes, — Antonius answered bluntly.

— Why am I not surprised? — the moff sighed, rummaging yet again in the piles. — Now where…aha! — he exclaimed, extracting the necessary page. — The Grand Admiral decided to call this Star Destroyer the Abyssal Fury. A strange name, perhaps, but that's the Supreme Commander's decision. And yes—before you get your hopes up, that Bylaw won't apply. We're leaving part of your old crew on the Sentinel—the gravity-well operator specialists. So officially…

— I'm not invoking that Bylaw, sir, — Antonius declared, rising and adjusting his uniform cap. — I quite like the name. My crew will too.

— Then we're finished here, Captain, — the moff mumbled, diving back into his paperwork.

Captain Stormaer left the Morshdine Sector governor's office in silence.

Silence—and full certainty that Grand Admiral Thrawn had chosen that name for the former Sentinel commander's ship for a reason.

Back at the Imperial Naval Academy, Stormaer had been nicknamed "the Abyss" for his boundless appetite for collecting battlefield trophies. Over the years he'd reined it in under strict discipline, but the temptation during the Ambush at Rugosa had been too great…

If he read the Grand Admiral's hint correctly, the Abyssal Fury and its crew would likely be tasked with further raids to recapture Imperial property from the New Republic.

A stormtrooper walking past turned his head, trying to read the captain's expression…

And recoiled, clutching his blaster rifle tight, panic in his eyes.

The trooper would see that savage smile of "the Abyss"—anticipating vengeance and justice—in his nightmares ever after, sleeping poorly from that day on…

***

— Quite an entrance, Supreme Commander Thrawn, — Valless Santhe remarked with a faint chuckle, sensing the subtle pull of her fitted attire across her sharp cheekbones. She was no magazine-cover beauty, and she knew it well, but public opinion had never interested her.

Valless Santhe.

— Thank you, — the blue-skinned Imperial said coolly. — Let's dispense with rhetoric and discuss why I've come.

"Soldier boy," Valless thought, disappointed. People from the lower strata of human society—let alone aliens—never grasp the finer points of diplomacy and commerce. They simply lack the capacity. It isn't in them.

Valless Santhe did not class herself among xenophobes. She only stated a fact: among humans, at best one in a thousand high-ranking officers and merchants grasps the invisible rules of aristocratic etiquette. Among nonhumans, that fraction is still smaller. And this blue-skinned humanoid with crimson eyes was no exception.

Her smile slipped, slowly, so as not to appear rude. Let him be but one more foolish Imperial warlord who's somehow climbed high. Then again, it won't do to flatter oneself—this "Grand Admiral" might be a pretender usurping the title. Or maybe some secret advisor to the deceased Emperor leveraged that advantage to overawe certain Imperial Remnants and seize an army.

Or, given the figure standing behind him, perhaps he truly influences Imperial society. Rumors do speak of a high-ranking alien in the Empire's Armed Forces. It's impossible to have risen so high without Palpatine's direct patronage. Indeed, if such underlings and servants follow him, he might have had power—past tense. Now, like all Imperials, he's just another beggar. The other Remnants probably cast him off with a modest fleet and ground forces. Otherwise, had he real backing from any major Remnant, he wouldn't be here courting her favor.

— Very well, — she said calmly. — You're not getting an orbital assembly yard.

— Really? — Thrawn returned, voice devoid of emotion. — Why?

— It's quite simple, — Valless put on an air of cold politeness. Let the alien see that she doesn't do business with clients she disdains. — I don't sell means of production. Only the product. If you need hardware, you can submit a request and receive it on schedule, under a standard contract.

— An interesting perspective, Lady Santhe, — the alien's voice was indeed pleasing, deep and velvet—a voice of command, one that issues ultimatums rather than negotiates. — All the more so since I haven't yet stated my proposal.

Valless smiled. Military types. Incapable of seeing past their own nose.

— Don't insult my intelligence, Grand Admiral, — she said. — I keep an eye on current events—it's good for business. A few Imperial Star Destroyers chasing after Alderaanian Princess Leia Organa-Solo and the Killik Twilight painting last year. Raids on New Republic outposts and bases. An operation in the Dufilvian Sector wiping out the sector fleet. Actions near Sluis. Pirate raids throughout the galaxy. Attacks on Pantolomin. The disappearance of a combined New Republic–smuggler force at Rugosa… Should I go on?

— If your intent was to impress me with your awareness, you needn't have tried so hard, — the alien answered calmly. — I follow the operational picture as well.

— Then I'll continue, — Lady Santhe said. — The Ubiqtorate Fleet left Tangrene, and there's been no news from the Morshdine Sector since, beyond rumors that people all across Imperial Space are being recruited for some unknown Grand Admiral. Meanwhile the New Republic claims they were all wiped out…

The alien observed her silently, as if measuring what she knew. The towering black-armored figure behind him…

— So, Grand Admiral Thrawn, — Valless continued, — you're neither the first nor I'm sure the last Imperial warlord who's come to me with demands, threats, proposals. Always the same story: you all want TIE-series craft, your go-to war machines. And my companies, as it happens, produce them. Everyone needs them. And judging by the scale of this war you're running, alone with no one's support, you need these craft in huge quantities. Fighters, interceptors, bombers… They're easily destroyed or damaged. We're well aware. Orbital assembly yards are the means of producing such vessels—they're my "weapon," if you prefer. And my "war" is these supply contracts: quick and top-quality. Your Imperial cohorts have long infringed on my patents, churning out these designs without a license. Put plainly, I've been losing money because of that. I will no longer let such an oversight occur.

— When the Galactic Empire held the galaxy, TIE-series craft were produced by thousands of factories across the stars, — Thrawn noted. — Do you now claim you suffered losses from all that?

— Such flawed policy from my predecessors is exactly why we're in today's predicament, — Valless said with a bored tone. — If Raith Sienar profited from mass production for the galaxy-wide government by subcontracting to every garage on every planet that could assemble fighters from parts, well, that was his approach. I, however, have a very different policy.

— I see your point, — Thrawn said, glancing at his datapad, where he typed quickly. Probably reporting these negotiations as a failure already—Imperials usually do that once they've left her office… — But my proposal is different…

— The fact that you came here with someone dressed in an Imperial Guard outfit—though not standard-issue—doesn't put your needs above anyone else's. Quite the contrary. If you need the ships that badly, I'll shove you even lower on my list for trying to pressure me. This game works if you're dealing with a weaker adversary, Grand Admiral, but not here. I'll say to you what I said to those who tried the same act: you can't scare me. Nor can you capture me by force. Anyone who tries to seize my companies on Lianna, well, I'll use all my influence, all my resources here and in the Tion Cluster, to obliterate the aggressors. Believe me—if you bring a fleet, for each of your ships I'll have ten of equivalent tonnage, both from my own forces and from the Imperial Remnants, who'll rush to defend me if I promise to raise the price of my goods. I hope I've explained things clearly?

— Undoubtedly, Lady Santhe, — the Imperial said. The timbre of his voice did not alter in the slightest. No anger, no frustration, not the faintest sign of the typical emotional meltdown so many Imperial warlords had displayed in that very spot. Not a muscle twitched on that face. Impressive enough. But it changed nothing, for Santhe never reversed her decisions. Let your emotions go once, and your clients will gossip to their colleagues that the Santhe family showed weakness. Then someone really would come, not the Imperials—who remain terrified of losing their only source of TIE craft—but the New Republic, which lusts for Lianna and the technology of Santhe's allied companies, not to mention the Tion Cluster next door, with its hundreds of hyperlanes, its industrial worlds and advanced economies… Time and again the new regime on Coruscant had shown interest, and time and again she had sent them packing. They left quietly, grinding their teeth, preferring to keep buying rather than force a confrontation. Yes, the New Republic does field some Sienar designs, sometimes even building them. But every time it leads to a fiasco. Hence they continue to contract Santhe, in large volumes. As for Imperial Remnants, all they can do is whine quietly if the New Republic decides to smash them with that might.

— I am perfectly capable of rational thought, and my hearing is fine, — the Chiss said.

— In that case, — Valless offered a conciliatory tone, — be sure to leave your request with my aide. We'll review it and let you know if we'll build you anything. Surely you understand that Imperial Remnants have tight finances these days. And since you're not one of them, nor enjoying their support, I doubt you can pay for a big order anyway. And small volumes aren't worth it for us.

— I fear you've misunderstood me, Lady Santhe, — the Grand Admiral said, gazing straight into her eyes, as if looking through her. Valless found herself taking a sudden dislike to this meeting. But what can one alien and his quasi–Darth Vader companion accomplish here, with a squad of her heavily armed troops waiting behind a thin partition? — You've made a number of missteps. First, you used your standard tactic for dealing with "undesirable" clients on me. And apparently you forgot not only basic courtesy—showing overt arrogance and contempt—but also the cardinal rule of business: "The customer is always right." Granted, you might not care for that notion. It originated in another culture, another era, among different beings. It remains relevant, though.

— Trying to show off? — she asked icily.

— Merely stating facts, — Thrawn replied coolly, handing his datapad back to the figure in black behind him. That silent shape raised a hand and took the device. Its black helmet with red visor tilted, as though reading the screen. Likely it was, for its fingers tapped a reply. Quite bold for an Imperial. So disrespectful. — You erred in several ways. First, you mistook the being behind me for an Imperial Royal Guard. In general terms, that's correct—yet an Imperial Shadow Guard, which you confused with Palpatine's red-robed guards, is a special subsection of that unit, quite a specific one, I would say… Before you voice surprise, let me just… — Thrawn lifted his hand palm-up, as if awaiting something to drop into it. Valless Santhe's brow furrowed. The datapad in the black-robed being's hands drifted lightly in midair, over the Grand Admiral's shoulder, landing on his palm.

— What cheap tricks are these?! — Valless snapped. — Am I supposed to believe you've brought your own pocket Darth Vader?

— You're free to believe whatever you wish, — the Grand Admiral said softly. — I've told you facts. The Imperial Shadow Guard is trained to eliminate Jedi and other Force-sensitive beings and possesses certain…formidable talents. For instance, — he extended a finger toward the fake partition, — my companion is quite aware there's a team of your troops behind that panel. And the fact that you failed to distinguish the uniform of the elite Imperial Guard from that of the Shadow Guard suggests you don't quite know the subjects you claim expertise in. I won't bore you with lengthy details. Let me instead invite you to think carefully about whom these elites serve, and why you never see them around other Imperial warlords.

— But there are Imperial Guardsmen, — Santhe reminded him.

— Indeed, — Thrawn agreed. — As there are in my service too, presently guarding my shuttle. Perhaps your people noticed the red-trimmed TIE interceptors escorting us. Rest assured the color isn't just for show. Anyway, moving along. Your second point: you treat your guest with disregard. I was polite, never interrupting you, following common courtesy toward a woman and a potential business partner. Perhaps you saw that as weakness, but it's really just cultural upbringing, nothing more.

Emperor's Shadow Guard.

At first, Santhe had half a mind to summon security and fling these two from Lianna altogether, but abruptly realized that her initial assumptions about him contained…gaps. And she despised unpolished details in her dealings. Oddly, the alien had piqued her interest. She wanted to hear him out…and then toss him out. The Santhe family knew how to learn from mistakes.

— Your third error is presuming every Imperial arrives here begging, — Thrawn continued. — I understand your resentment for lost revenue from unlicensed TIE production. But that's your purely commercial concern. I, however, came in a ship loaded with money, prepared to buy an orbital assembly yard. You didn't even hear me out. A shame, really. I value others' labor and property. First and foremost, Imperial property, even if it belongs to someone else. You listed the Empire's latest victories. Yet clearly you haven't followed the news. The Empire recently staged another attack on the New Republic's Hast Yards, — Lady Santhe arched an eyebrow. — We took back what was ours. Curious tidbit: my sources say the assault was led by an Imperial Star Destroyer called the Reckoning, — Santhe narrowed her eyes. She'd be sure to verify that. — Soon enough, you'll hear the Ciutric Hegemony, which you cited as your competitor, now holds a decent lineup of capital ships, mostly spoils. After all these operations by the Imperials and the wake of destruction they leave—plus the spoils—they've collected, perhaps you can see I didn't come here to reminisce about the Empire's glory days and ask for equipment. And I certainly didn't come to wage war or cause you harm, but rather to protect myself and my few allies. Because the events unfolding in the galaxy are alarming. And what looms ahead… — Santhe almost asked him to clarify, but decided not to reveal her ignorance. Corporate intelligence would figure it out. — Calculations show that building one TIE fighter costs you about fifty thousand credits. Demand for these craft is steadily declining year after year. No matter how you paint it, all major Imperial Remnants now prefer buying from the Ciutric Hegemony. You mostly get orders for the pricier, low-production TIE models. Some from the New Republic, too, — Lady Santhe snorted. — Yes, — for the first time, the alien's lips curved in a slight smile. — You may try to hide it, but it can't be denied. Still, were I you, I'd trust the New Republic with caution. Minutes ago you implied they'd eliminated all Grand Admirals. Let me assure you, that's not true. Perhaps you'd be interested in an "insignificant" incident on Rathalay, where several luxurious villas were destroyed. One was run by a man suspiciously resembling Grand Admiral Octavian Grant—a man who hates "aliens" like me. Another interesting detail: that traitor, after Palpatine's death, hid out in the Pentastar Alignment, then emerged from hiding and…disappeared. Right as the New Republic struck a series of lightning blows on secret Imperial depots and bases in the midst of the galaxy's conflicts, supposedly orchestrated by a single Grand Admiral—someone who's causing the New Republic more devastation than they've ever known…

— What's your point? — Santhe asked.

— It's quite simple, — Thrawn said. — Everyone wants to protect themselves. That's why I'm here. I came seeking a system for building small craft. I was ready to pay, covering all your costs—given the market slump, not to mention the partial giveaways you make to certain Imperial warlords so they'll leave you alone. A billion, maybe a billion and a half, for an orbital assembly yard worth five hundred million—surely that's a decent offer?

Santhe found herself almost amused. The alien swamped her with verifiable facts. So he wasn't lying outright; though he might not be sharing the whole truth either. He'd sprinkled in hints for her to unravel.

— You propose I sell you an orbital yard to defend yourself against a rising Ciutric Hegemony? — she smirked. — Or perhaps you think I'd believe the New Republic is handing out starships so they can attack…someone?

— Not "someone," — the Grand Admiral corrected. — You. Not long ago I returned to known space, and I must say I'm displeased by what I see. Unlike other Imperials, my goal isn't to fight down to the last soldier. One can achieve what they want through other means.

— Which means exactly? — Valless asked.

— You really imagine I'd reveal that to you? — Thrawn gave a wry smile. — No, Lady Santhe. We're in different leagues. I came hoping to purchase a production line and propose an alliance against those troubling both you and me. It's always more profitable and simpler to fight with an ally at your side than to hold vast resources and production but lack capital ships. Because no matter how bravely you talk, Lady Santhe, your real power lies solely in your factories. You have no truly strong allies—only those who'll intervene if you call for help. From a military standpoint, I'd note that by the time you rally distant Imperials to your rescue, Lianna will already be a blazing inferno. — She gave a soft snort of derision. — It seems you intend to manage perfectly well on your own. I won't insist. I certainly won't beg, plead, or grovel. You're uninterested in a constructive dialogue, which is unfortunate. I never collaborate with those who try to use me, or who display ignorance yet pretend superiority. Take what I've told you as no more than a friendly courtesy—a gesture of goodwill to a longtime supplier of excellent weaponry. Perhaps I was mistaken and camaraderie means nothing in this galaxy anymore.

— Or perhaps you're just upset at my refusal and trying to spin a ridiculous story on the fly, hoping I'll beg you for protection in exchange for handing over these priceless production lines? — Lady Santhe laughed. — Dear Grand Admiral, wearing all those flashy medals doesn't make you equal to those who earned them legitimately. Warlord Zsinj liked to wear white too, and see what befell him. Palpatine gave rank not to those who "looked" the part, but who proved themselves superior, cunning, and crafty. I've been in this business a long time, Grand Admiral Thrawn. I've heard my share of tall tales. Yours is the wildest so far.

— Then indeed I have no further business here, — Thrawn said, rising from his seat, a trace of amusement on his lips. — I'm sure you won't heed my final remark, but I cling to hope that, when times are dire, we might save your company and its employees together.

— And what nonsense would that be? — she asked, not hiding her contempt now.

— Merely two parting comments, — the blue-skinned humanoid answered. — First: next time you speak with your New Republic clients, ask them how come the Star Destroyers Emancipator and Liberator ended up at the Hast Yards during that previous assault. If they claim that the raid on Hast years ago never interfered with an operation to pit some Imperials against others, sparking a localized war, they lie.

— I was wrong to say you couldn't produce an even crazier story than all the others, — Santhe said.

— Think what you like, Lady Santhe, — Thrawn said softly. — But you might ponder why a self-proclaimed bastion of peace—the New Republic, which decries Imperial tyranny—would be refitting and arming a Super Star Destroyer, the Lusankya, which vanished from the galaxy after the Bacta War. 

This last point shook Valless to her core. Quite powerfully.

— After all, isn't it curious, — Thrawn went on, still holding her gaze, — that Lianna's defenses could repel a modest but well-armed fleet, but not the sister ship of the Executor, which neither Golans nor planetary shields can fully protect against… And if it's escorted by certain other missing vessels…

He left it at that. Evidently he sensed that, while his earlier points might sound like lunacy, any claim about the Lusankya couldn't be ignored. Particularly in light of the New Republic's recent orders. Plus, she could check for herself…

— You do have a knack for eloquence, Grand Admiral, — she gave a "polite" smile. — I suppose some of your concerns may indeed hold water. I need time to assess and verify…

— Let me know if you do, — he said.

— I'll contact you if necessary, — she answered.

— Not "if," Lady Santhe, — Thrawn replied. — "When."

She continued to stare into his eyes. He wasn't simply lying with perfect skill. More likely he was mixing truths and half-truths. But she was beginning to suspect at least the Lusankya angle might be true. And that was very easy to investigate. If the New Republic, like any normal government, had been quietly repairing it, that alone said nothing about the threat of deploying a Super Star Destroyer. But if they'd suddenly rushed to accelerate…

— Should you prove correct regarding threats to Lianna and my companies, you'll receive a generous discount on our products, Grand Admiral, — she said. The implication was clear enough—if he lied, his days were numbered. — Your help in eliminating the danger would be suitably rewarded.

— Another slip, Lady Santhe, — Thrawn said with a faint shake of his head. — After all I've heard from you today, when next I come to Lianna, I'll take whatever I wish, and you'll yield it willingly so your world won't fall beneath the onslaught of your enemies.

And, perhaps, that filthy alien is just deceiving her…