Grand Admiral

Nine years, six months, and twenty-four days after the Battle of Yavin...

Or forty-four years, six months, and twenty-four days after the Great Resynchronization.

The Lambda-class shuttle had barely touched its landing struts to the platform carved into the mountainside when Major Grodin Tierce was already descending the lowered ramp, heading toward the squad of stormtroopers waiting to greet him and his prisoner.

— Welcome to the facility, Major, — General Covell said, stepping out from behind the white-armored soldiers.

— Thank you, General, — Tierce replied curtly. — I won't be staying long—just here to hand over the traitor to you.

He shoved a tall man dressed in a black prisoner's jumpsuit forward. A black hood had been thoughtfully placed over the man's head, and his hands and feet were bound with chains and cuffs, preventing swift movement.

Approaching the prisoner, General Covell yanked the hood off, staring into a face well-known to every Imperial.

— So this is what you look like, "Grand Admiral" Octavian Grant, — the commandant of Mount Tantiss smirked before replacing the hood. He ignored the muffled sounds coming from beneath the gag in the prisoner's mouth. — Take him to Laboratory Forty-Two, — he ordered, turning to the stormtrooper squad leader. The officer barked a regulation response, grabbed the prisoner by the arm, and, flanked by eight troopers, led him toward a distant passage into the mountain's depths.

— I'll report to the Grand Admiral personally, — Covell said, meeting the eyes of the undercover Imperial Guardsman without fear.

— As you wish, — Grodin shrugged indifferently. Glancing at the nearby shuttles, where groups of people in plain fleet uniforms without insignia stood, he asked:

— A new batch of clones?

General Covell gave a strained smile.

— That's beyond your clearance level, Major, — he said, not bothering to hide the threat in his tone. — You've done what you were ordered to do. Farewell.

— Yes, sir, — in his past, clad in crimson-black robes, Grodin would have wiped the hangar floor with this pompous general, smearing it with blood and other bodily fluids that tend to leak from a human body pierced in seventy places by a vibropike.

Without a goodbye, Major Tierce returned to his shuttle. The support squad soldiers sat silently in their seats, awaiting the moment their services would be needed again.

— Take off, — Grodin snapped as he entered the pilots' cabin. — Set course for Tangrene. Establish a link with the Chimaera and inform the Grand Admiral that I have personalized, high-priority news for him. I'll be in my quarters—route the call there.

This petty general can think whatever he wants and report to whoever he pleases.

Guardsmen always report directly to their master.

***

The Chimaera materialized into realspace right on schedule. Before everyone on the bridge stretched the grim vista of Vjun—a world of dark gray and swampy hues, a clear sign that this planet, located in the star system of the same name within the Niuri sector of the Outer Rim, classified under quadrant V-6 by the Imperial astronavigation guide, had endured many calamities in its past.

The planet Vjun.

Yet my attention was drawn to an entirely different sight.

As the hyperspace metrics dissipated, another gray, triangular hull of a warship emerged to the right of the vessel—a design that had struck terror into the galaxy's inhabitants for decades. Were it not for a few distinct features, one might assume all was well with the Nemesis...

— Now it's clear why they've been silent all this time, — Captain Pellaeon said, his emotions poorly concealed and far from Jedi ideals. Not that he needed to adhere to such tenets. — Crew! — he barked, addressing the bridge watch. — Battle stations! Launch fighters, secure the Chimaera's perimeter.

The shrill blare of sirens assaulted my ears...

— There was a battle, — I said, leaning forward to study the starship's outline and the debris field nearby. A vast amount of debris. — Judging by that mess of mangled hull plating and engines, it's all that's left of the Corellian corvette escort.

Both deflector shield generator spheres on the destroyer were gone. The stern was torn apart as if rammed. The hull bore countless marks of impacts and breaches. The elevated midsection turbolaser turrets were missing entirely, the ion cannons and most of the port-side artillery facing us destroyed. I doubt the starboard side fared better. But what intrigued me most were the chunks of plating and armor—too similar to those of Imperial Star Destroyers. That piece over there, for instance, was clearly a bow section—or at least the first ten meters of one.

And it wasn't from the Nemesis...

— Multiple fighter and interceptor wrecks, — Pellaeon noted immediately. — At least ten to fifteen squadrons.

— Which far exceeds the number of fighters a single Star Destroyer carries, — I said. — Any signs of life on the Nemesis?

— Affirmative, Grand Admiral! — came the voice of... Lieutenant Tschel. Swiveling in my chair, I regarded the eager young officer, striking with his under-eye circles, impeccably pressed fleet uniform, and the red web of burst capillaries in his eyes. — We're detecting movement aboard. The solar ionization reactor is active, but they're not responding.

— Lieutenant, — Pellaeon said evenly. — Note that Captain Schneider's ship currently looks like a sarlacc swallowed it. After your shift, report to the chief engineer for an unscheduled evaluation on your knowledge of the operation and location of an Imperial-I-class Star Destroyer's communication systems. Understood?

— Yes, sir, — Tschel replied, his voice brisk yet weary.

Pellaeon's hounding the lieutenant. Noted. But shelved for later. More pressing matters demand attention.

— Deploy fighters to sweep the Nemesis, — I ordered. — And send a forward recon team aboard the Star Destroyer. If there are survivors, we need to know what happened since their last report.

— Yes, sir! — Pellaeon saluted, hurrying to the crew pits and issuing hushed commands.

Now, some logic. Based on the premise that "hindsight is strength."

The last reports from Mara Jade and Captain Schneider came eight days ago. Both mentioned the fiery redhead insisting on exiting hyperspace early to begin reconnaissance.

Given the presence of Bast Castle—Vader's personal residence—on this planet, Mara Jade's caution seems justified. The debris only confirms it—they were either ambushed or attacked, but the Nemesis crew fought back. The damage and wreckage suggest they faced overwhelming enemy forces.

The ship's lost its defenses and comms, engines crippled. Hyperdrives—main and backup—too. Otherwise, they wouldn't still be here. Shuttles with hyperdrives are likely damaged or destroyed as well—else they'd have been used to contact us and report the situation. And notably, no messages have come from the ship since.

We didn't reach out, as the ship's operating in conditionally hostile territory where transmissions could be traced, potentially exposing its position—if we didn't already do so during that call eight days ago.

What's the bottom line?

Something or someone struck the Nemesis so swiftly they couldn't report it. I don't believe Jade or Schneider deliberately ignored orders and engaged a clearly superior foe without informing command.

And I'd love to smack myself for the oversight—why didn't we "drop by" Vjun when we headed to Hast? Same route! But no, I prioritized... shipyard raids and trophy captures over the Vjun operation's fate...

There it is—the very thing I pondered after the Hast victory. Mistakes that cloud judgment and lead to defeat.

A failure I could've avoided if I'd kept full control over everything happening in the galaxy and around my forces. There'd be no issues if a real Thrawn were in my place—one who could hold it all in his head without needing staffs or advisors...

I may have his physiology, but not his skill. No matter how hard I try, I can't keep the big picture in my mind. Not at that level yet. Or maybe never will. I can dissect a specific situation down to the minutiae. The manipulation of enemies—real and hypothetical—that I outlined to Pellaeon during the flight would impress even a seasoned veteran.

But this situation proves his words true—how do individual actions tie into the broader plan? Sure, my plans intersect at points, but that's the problem—they're just points, not the seamless structure I aim for. The Nemesis's state is proof that focusing on one issue let others slip. I essentially left the Vjun problem to Mara Jade and Captain Schneider instead of maintaining oversight.

I assumed two months of active successes meant my subordinates could handle situations independently. And I blundered...

What's the takeaway? The system where I merely set tasks and checked in "when convenient" doesn't work. It's a path to failure. I need to keep my hand on the pulse. Pay more attention to the details of operations not under my direct command. Not long ago, Captain Mor argued that tactical initiative belongs to Star Destroyer commanders—the executors.

Two sides of the same coin. A reminder not to judge my subordinates uniformly. Some can handle tasks; others can't. Hast showed that clearly...

And now, Vjun...

I clearly overlooked that other Imperial warlords might know of Bast Castle. They're likely the ones who clashed here. If so, we must act swiftly to mitigate the fallout—secure Tangrene.

— Captain Pellaeon, — I said, keeping my voice steady.

I can't let anyone sense panic. That'd raise big questions from the crew—about how my behavior deviates from the real Thrawn's in similar scenarios, at least. Subordinates quickly pick up on shifts in their commander's mood or actions. Acting unlike Thrawn would unravel everything I've built. For the "ride into the sunset" to work, they can't doubt me. They must believe I alone can defeat the New Republic and other foes. I must maintain a "policy" that convinces them no other Imperial needs us—ours is the only true path. And for that, they can't question me. Winning over Pellaeon, Ferrus, Reyes, Tierce, and Himron—mere command staff—was hard enough. Gaining the absolute loyalty of so many subordinates is no small feat.

— Contact Moff Ferrus. He must immediately deploy the asteroids to their positions and activate the cloaking fields.

That's what they were made for. Though they have other uses, we'll stick to this for now.

— Sir? — Pellaeon asked, surprised.

— Our mission on Vjun didn't go as planned, Captain, — I explained. — Whoever fought the Nemesis may already know our main base's location. They'll attack Tangrene—anytime we least expect it. Our fleet and base personnel must be ready.

— But then our ships returning from Hast will be trapped, — the Chimaera's commander pointed out.

— Warn them of the security changes, — I ordered. — The safe passage between cloaked asteroids can be tracked using the gravitic crystal lattice at our shipyard.

Gilad nodded silently and resumed issuing orders.

His last remark sparked a thought.

Pellaeon undoubtedly knew the orbital shipyard had equipment to detect cloaked ships and objects—like any fleet commander. Yet I had to remind him...

Proof I'm not the only one missing answers right under my nose. For some reason, I recalled a scene from the Thrawn Trilogy books—when the Grand Admiral visited Honoghr to meet the matriarchs. There, he learned a noghri ship carried Wookiee fur. Thrawn assumed the noghri had been captured by Kashyyyk's people during a failed operation. He was close to the truth. But had he tested the fur's DNA, he'd have found most—or all—belonged to one Wookiee. Chewbacca...

And afterward, Thrawn didn't monitor the noghri closely or consider their potential betrayal... which cost him his life.

So...

Sweat beaded on my forehead.

What if I overestimated the real Thrawn? Yes, he's a tactical and strategic genius among Imperials, but he lost. Where it could've been foreseen—with, say, a staff.

He said he didn't reject others' worthy ideas just because they weren't his. I already have a sort of staff—Moff Ferrus handles recruitment, finances, and political support. Chief Engineer Reyes manages technical aspects, Pellaeon's a walking fleet HQ. And Captain Mor regularly sends me his insights... It's practically a "staff" in the classic sense. Except it's unofficial.

Forming an official advisory body would be disastrous—it contradicts the real Thrawn's behavior. Back to the need to conform... Ugh. No meetings, no briefings from colleagues, no hearing their input like in my past life.

I've tried staying informed, getting updates from each branch—fleet, intelligence, counterintelligence, industry, supply, repairs...

Tried doing it as the real Thrawn would...

And completely forgot his path led to failure and death.

I smirked bitterly to myself.

Vjun, huh? Mara Jade? One misstep, and my mind's suddenly optimistic. But mistakes don't come alone.

Take Molo Himron's prolonged silence... We didn't disturb him to avoid compromising him.

What if there's a failure there too?

Closing my eyes, I stroked the ysalamiri on my lap.

Calm down, Grand Admiral.

It's not a failure yet. We'll panic when—or if—bad news arrives. But this wake-up call is timely... I can only hope my oversight's consequences aren't as dire as they could be. With some skill, any defeat can become a stalemate.

Of course, no one but me knows my full "ride into the sunset" plan. Pellaeon's privy only to short-term tactics—and discussing them improved them.

Mara Jade and Molo Himron know even less of my plans but hold critical info to maintain my cover.

Namely, that Palpatine's alive—or will be soon... And I don't intend to align with him. That's a problem.

I erred by telling operatives too much. That's a blun... failure.

So now, if the Nemesis was attacked by the enemy I just considered, I can only hope Mara Jade wasn't captured alive.

— Grand Admiral, sir, — Lieutenant Tschel's excited voice broke in. — Fighters and boarding teams have reached the Nemesis.

— I need a full report, Lieutenant, — I said dryly. — Save the intrigue for off-duty hours.

— Captain Schneider requests permission to come aboard, — Tschel said. — And... the Nemesis's ground forces are in bad shape, sir. As is the destroyer itself.

Really? Did anyone doubt that after what we've seen?

— Arrange a meeting, Captain Pellaeon, — I ordered, rising from my chair and glancing at the young man sitting quietly nearby.

— Follow me, Mr. Fodeum Sabre De'Luz. Your talents will soon prove useful.

***

The Dark Side of the Force is strong on this world.

It's like water in a lake, with a raft and a man in the center. And if desired, one could drink deeply of that water—beautiful, granting strength, power, energy to shatter all obstacles.

Or drown in it.

Reynar opened his eyes.

It took him a moment to realize where he was.

A meditation chamber, built by Darth Vader himself. Located within Bast Castle, constructed for the Sith Lord. A massive fortress symbolizing the might and status of the Dark Lord in the Galactic Empire's hierarchy.

A dead lord.

With a hiss, the chamber's doors slid open.

Reynar looked at the stormtrooper in heavy armor beside him.

A unit of the Galactic Empire's Assault Corps, specially trained for duty and combat on planets like Vjun. Where nature itself rejects invaders...

This type of stormtrooper symbolizes the Empire's readiness to punish its enemies anywhere, under any conditions.

— A Star Destroyer has been detected in orbit, — the stormtrooper said.

— And? — Reynar clarified, standing and stretching his stiff neck with a crack. He'd meditated too long, seeking the Force's guidance on achieving his goals and finding the answers he needed.

— The ship's identified as the Chimaera, Grand Admiral Thrawn's flagship, — the faceless, individuality-stripped soldier explained. Long ago, in what felt like another life, Reynar had been the same. Nameless, pastless, a ruthless executor of others' will. Though, what's changed now? He still does as he's told.

— Any word on our ships? — Reynar asked, running a hand over the lightsaber at his belt. So simple... First one, now another...

— Negative, Commander, — the reply displeased him.

— Contact Executor Sedriss immediately! — he ordered.

— We already have, Commander, — the stormtrooper replied. — No response.

— Comms failure? — Reynar frowned.

— The system's functional, — the trooper countered. — The frequency left for us isn't active.

— What? — For the first time in years, since joining the Inquisitorius, Reynar felt confusion. — What does that mean?!

— I lack the data, sir, — the trooper replied in the same flat tone.

The Inquisitor felt anger boiling within.

— But I understand, — he rasped.

An invisible Force seemed to choke his throat. Were Darth Vader alive, Reynar might've thought the Dark Lord was using his favorite trick—a refined execution method.

But no. Here in Bast Castle, no one surpassed him in the Force.

His throat tightened for a different reason...

He understood.

He realized why Executor Sedriss QL and six other Dark Jedi of the Dark Side Elite had left Vjun, taking the Nemesis's shuttles and transports after annihilating the legion loyal to Grand Admiral Thrawn.

He understood why all secret equipment had been evacuated from Bast Castle.

He grasped the order's essence: hold Bast Castle to the last with a stormtrooper battalion, using a single comms channel to the Executor.

He saw why Sedriss QL had ordered emergency contact only if ships from the Grand Admiral's fleet appeared.

He knew why he'd been tasked with torturing the former Emperor's Hand, who never broke.

Finally, he understood why he—a turncoat Inquisitor—had been left in charge of Darth Vader's residence.

Reynar Obscuro realized he'd been betrayed.

Imperial Inquisitor Reynar Obscuro.

***

Despite his bandaged head and face, Captain Schneider maintained a rigid "attention" stance until offered a chair and ordered to give a detailed report.

— Right after my last report to you, Grand Admiral, we began scanning the system, — he said. Judging by his expression, speaking hurt. Logical, given shrapnel from an exploded panel had been pulled from his neck just days ago after another surgery in the ship's medbay. — Recon droids were sent to Vjun. Despite the acidic atmosphere, they confirmed no forces in or around Bast Castle...

I sat across from the Nemesis's commander, listening and noting his demeanor. So far, nothing exceeded acceptable physiognomic variance. The Jenssarai behind me hadn't detected deceit in the Imperial captain's words either.

— ...Lieutenant Jade ordered the landing and led it personally, — Schneider continued. — As soon as the legion hit the surface, all contact with them—surface and beyond the system—vanished instantly. The ships didn't return either. We declared battle stations on the Nemesis. But no one attacked us. Instead, we detected two Lambdas approaching. Their pilots reported comms issues and equipment failures due to the planet's acidic fallout.

— And you didn't request access codes? — Gilad interjected.

— Don't insult my intelligence, Captain Pellaeon! — Schneider snapped. — I haven't commanded a Star Destroyer for a day!

— Enough, — I said to both officers. The Jenssarai behind me snorted quietly. I agree entirely—grown men, officers, bickering like children. — Continue your report, Captain Schneider.

— Of course I requested codes, — Schneider said, glaring at Gilad, who quickly looked away. — Main and backup! They matched. The pilots' voices were verified by the Operations Control Center as ours. I allowed them to land...

Given the planet we're orbiting, it's clear what might've happened.

— Did the pilots' voices sound detached? — I asked.

— Sorry? — Schneider blinked his one unbandaged eye.

— Did it seem like they were repeating someone else's words? — I clarified.

The Nemesis's commander paused, then nodded affirmatively.

Now it's clear. Force-sensitive beings took control of the pilots. "These aren't the droids you're looking for"—that sort of thing. I'm only starting to realize how wrong I was to think this planet lay dormant until the Followers of Marka Ragnos arrived.

— Go on.

— As soon as the ships entered the main hangar, their ramps dropped, and droids poured out, — Schneider said.

— Separatist battle machines? — Pellaeon asked.

— No, — Schneider grimaced. — Ours. From the Dark Trooper project.

Now I felt truly uneasy.

Those droids—a small squad could wipe out an army. They appeared in a video game... with Kyle Katarn, I think. As I recall, they were made solely aboard a super Star Destroyer that was destroyed. Shouldn't that have ended their production?

Unless...

It makes sense.

Dark Troopers were brought to Vjun before their factory ship's destruction. I remember now—the ship was the Arc Hammer. Destroyed between the Battles of Yavin and Endor, if I'm not mistaken. So either there's another production site, or Vjun houses units made before the Arc Hammer's demise.

— Before we could mount a defense against the boarding teams, they used the shuttles to disable long-range comms and blast our deflectors, — Schneider continued. — They killed over a thousand of my crew before we destroyed them. We shot down the shuttles, naturally. Then two Procursator-class Star Destroyers arrived in orbit.

The name rang a bell.

I'd encountered it studying Mount Tantiss data. Among other things, there was an image of this ship type. Weaker than a standard ISD, perhaps—I lack precise info since Palpatine's cronies scrubbed it. But since they hadn't surfaced until now, I'm likely right—Palpatine hoarded the deadliest and most exotic weapons, including small-run starships, in his Deep Core lair.

— I chose not to evade combat since we didn't know the landing party's fate, — Schneider paused. — Procursators are less armed than Imperials—around Victory-class level. But they take hits well and hit back hard. Without deflectors, we wouldn't have lasted long, so we did everything to eliminate them. They didn't retreat, and we stopped their boarding attempts with the corvette... until it was destroyed. Bombers roughed them up, but they kept coming. Despite losses and damage, I took both out. I'm left with no comms, no fighter wing, no engines, no shields, and no hyperdrive—they targeted those first, — he explained. — We've been repairing, trying to contact the surface. A day ago, we saw our shuttles leaving the planet's far side, heading toward the Core Worlds—maybe even Coruscant.

Close, but no. They went straight to the Deep Core... And Bast Castle likely holds nothing of interest anymore.

On one hand, known events suggest something like this—guarding Vader's residence. Its contents sat there long after Endor until claimed by various parties. But my actions have surely altered events, so it's no surprise the planet's been stripped of anything I'd want. Still, it's a hunch—I need to confirm it thoroughly.

— Since then, we've tried fixing anything—comms or engines—to call for help or go get it, but the crew and systems are at their limit. We took a beating, — he concluded. — But with some solid repairs, we'll be ready to return to duty and follow orders, sir, — Captain Schneider finished.

— Contact Tangrene, Captain Pellaeon, — I ordered, looking at my flagship's commander. — We need a transport with parts for the Nemesis. And support ships to guard it during repairs. Instruct the Bellicose and Stormhawk to abandon their current mission and head to our system, — the fleet traveling at class-three hyperdrive speeds shouldn't be far. — Death's Head and Inexorable are to proceed to Wayland and await further orders.

No doubt now—by chance or design, my operations crossed paths with agents of the Reborn Palpatine. If they broke Mara Jade, Mount Tantiss is compromised, and we can expect "guests."

— Return to your ship, Captain Schneider, — I ordered. — Oversee the repairs. Report any issues immediately. Captain Pellaeon will assign extra repair crews.

The man rose, saluted silently, and left the squadron briefing compartment.

After Schneider departed, I turned to the young Jenssarai. He shrugged, embarrassed:

— I didn't sense him lying, — the youth said. — But my abilities... aren't perfect.

— We'll assume Captain Schneider's truthful, — I said. It's the best we've got. — Embed trusted agents in the repair teams, Captain Pellaeon. Have them discreetly verify the Nemesis crew's account.

Piecing together scattered facts. If they align, it likely happened as Schneider said. If not...

Calm down. Don't overreact to a burn from milk. Rationality is key. No wallowing in what's done. It's war—people die, equipment breaks.

Schneider said ships left Vjun a day ago. The attack was eight days back. In that time, Palpatine could've sent reinforcements to finish or board the Nemesis if he wanted.

Those ships could've evacuated the planet's assets. But Palpatine's lackeys opted for self-evacuation. Why?

Hard to say definitively. But if my astronavigation memory serves, the only known route from the Deep Core to the galaxy passes through the Empress Teta system, Foerost shipyards, and... Coruscant. Either Palpatine has another exit from the Deep Core—unlikely, given its gravitational anomalies and lack of hyperspace lanes—or, more logically, he's not ready to send ships through New Republic territory from the Deep Core yet. The New Republic's Core Worlds fleet is strong, with gravity well generators. Catching a few odd ships in hyperspace could expose Palpatine's conspiracy.

Still, I suspect he has a base in known space. Maybe those Procursators came from there. Well... this encounter taught me their strength. Something, at least...

I can't ignore this threat anymore. My actions have had serious consequences. I need to know exactly what Palpatine has. I'd planned to compare Imperial fleet bases at Endor with ships now held by the New Republic and Imperial Remnants. Tedious, imprecise—especially without data on destroyed vessels...

But I know how to get the intel.

— Prepare a landing party and recon droids, Captain Pellaeon, — I ordered. — Time to clarify our Nemesis troopers' fate.

And Mara Jade's—to gauge the depth of the hole I've dug myself.

***

Reynar Obscuro moved silently through Bast Castle's grim corridors, descending to the lower levels of the grand structure steeped in the Dark Side's energy.

Bast Castle.

So familiar, like a second skin.

The Force had been his companion since birth, never leaving him. Being a sentient sensitive to it was a gift. And a curse.

No stormtroopers or mighty Dark Troopers—once plentiful here—crossed his path.

He'd recalled troops from the lower levels and perimeter to defend Bast Castle, forming a single line within Vader's residence walls. Now, endlessly loyal after six years guarding this fortress, they awaited his orders.

Their purpose hinged on the upcoming conversation's success.

While his battalion held positions, anticipating the Chimaera's landing craft seizing platforms and launching an assault, Reynar had to act before bloodshed began.

He and his troops mustn't die here. This isn't their fight.

They were used and discarded.

They must escape alive and vanish into the galaxy. The Empire's gone. Only mad Sith followers remain, for whom he and his men are mere pawns.

But they're wrong. Reynar Obscuro isn't a piece to be used and discarded on Vjun, left to die against Grand Admiral Thrawn's forces, here to investigate and deal with those who killed his people and tortured his trusted agent.

Perhaps the Force is merciful even to Dark Side adherents. Had the Nemesis and its crew been destroyed, Thrawn might not have landed—just ended it with an orbital strike, inescapable.

He reached the needed door.

He reached out with the Force, sensing where his target was. The Dark Side's energy, overwhelming on Vjun, was immense within Bast Castle—few could master it. At times, it pressed so heavily, clouding perception, that sensing someone steps away was impossible...

But today, the Dark Side was his ally.

Crushing the lock with the Force, he tore the thin door panel—made to withstand a laser cannon blast—from its frame.

The corridor's dim light cut through the cell's darkness, illuminating its sparse contents.

Reynar stepped forward. He barely restrained a triumphant, promising smile—the one he'd greeted this cell's occupant with before each torture session.

No denying it—this woman was beautiful. A lovely face, a stunning figure, soft, silky red hair... That's how he first saw her.

Now, he faced a beaten, cut woman—matted hair, twisted fingers, left leg broken in two places, nails torn from hands and feet. He didn't need to inspect her to know her body was a patchwork of blue, purple, black, and yellow bruises...

— Mara Jade, — he said, meeting the green fire of her eyes. Still defiant, challenging, unyielding. He could break her for weeks, months, but knew no torture, no pain, would make her talk or betray her new master's plans.

— Obscuro, — she rasped. Reynar watched her swollen, cracked lips, dry from dehydration. He cursed himself for not anticipating this—they'd given her just a daily sip to keep her physically needy, slowly breaking her resistance. A canteen could've started this differently... But the Inquisitorius taught pain, not care—only how to extract what was needed from captives.

— I'm here, — he said, watching her reaction. Maybe he'd catch a hint of fear in her eyes? Enough to press, make her talk, do what he needed.

— I see, — her mangled lips curved into a smile. — Shall we continue?

He nearly flinched.

This woman shattered his notions of torturer and tortured. Usually, his victims—human or otherwise—screamed hysterically, begging him to stop. He ignored them, savoring their pain.

But Mara Jade seemed to crave what was coming...

Reynar wouldn't be a top Inquisitor if he didn't see her behavior as psychological armor, meant to rob him of torture's pleasure.

This former Emperor's Hand, who'd betrayed her master by ignoring his final order, knew the intricacies of Imperials extracting intel from prisoners. She'd likely done similar work herself...

— No, — he said firmly. — You're coming upstairs with me.

— Only if you carry me, tattooed one, — her lips twisted into a scornful smirk. — I'm not walking anywhere.

— Your leg doesn't hurt enough to stop you, — Reynar grimaced. — If you want to live, you'll come.

— I wouldn't be so sure if I were you, — she's mocking him?! — Something tells me you're scared, Inquisitor. And I'm damn sure it's your pathetic life you're scared for.

— You talk too much, — Reynar unclipped his lightsaber. His finger hit the activation switch, and the air hummed with the synchronized buzz of twin red blades. — You come with me, or you die!

— Always wondered, — she tilted her head as if studying him better. — Dual-bladed lightsaber—compensating for some insecurity?

Why can't she just shut up and follow?!

— You little wretch, — he hissed, stepping close and pressing the blades near her throat. Red glow bathed her battered face, lending it a sinister cast... Those green eyes... — I'll just kill you and be done!

— Get in line, Inquisitor, — she... laughed?! Now?!

Reynar Obscuro stepped back, staring in confusion as the beaten, broken girl laughed uncontrollably.

— What's so funny, traitor?! — he roared, regaining control. — I'm trying to save your life!

Wiping tears from her eyes, she looked at him—not as an Inquisitor who could kill her anytime, but as a circus performer...

— Now that's new, — she smirked crookedly, reopening a healing lip wound. She licked it, tasting her blood. — You know, — she said, — I don't believe you. You won't dare kill me—Palpatine's lackeys would gut you for it. He's the one who's supposed to punish me for betrayal, and until then, I'm to suffer until I beg him to end me...

Exactly what Executor Sedriss said when the Nemesis legion was wiped out and Mara Jade captured, losing her lightsaber to seven Dark Side Elite Jedi. She fought well—for someone out of practice. But Sedriss and his six aides toyed with her, disbelieving fate delivered the traitor to them.

— And you'd fear defying your masters, Inquisitor, — she continued. — That's why you won't let me go, Obscuro—afraid of your comrades' reaction. You Inquisitors only know torture but dread being the victim. You're just cowards who chose Palpatine and Vader to save your skins from slaughter...

— Wrong, — Reynar snarled like a rancor. — I joined the Inquisitorius willingly. And I'm here for one reason—either we strike a deal and Thrawn's forces let me and my men leave peacefully, or I kill you now.

She fell silent for a moment. Then, with a voice dripping satisfaction:

— So Thrawn's here... Now I get why you're so rattled, Inquisitor. You're scared you'll be the one interrogated now.

Reynar didn't dignify that with a reply. Neither needed it—they both knew how close she was to the truth.

— So, we have a deal, traitor? — he asked, holding his breath.

He could negotiate with Thrawn himself, killing Mara Jade. But he knew Thrawn wouldn't deal, knowing his people were dead. Then orbital bombardment becomes a real prospect.

Leaving her here to rot isn't an option either—he was sure Thrawn knew the Emperor's Hand's status. Sedriss claimed she served the Grand Admiral instead of her master. If so, Thrawn won't talk until he recovers his most valuable ground asset.

Oh, why couldn't Sedriss bring a fleet and ambush Thrawn as promised? Sithspawn! Betrayal comes as easily to Palpatine's followers as their grand speeches about restoring the Empire. Hutt-damned traitors! Why haven't they crushed that alien if they're sure he's betrayed the Empire for his own schemes?! They fled, taking all traces of the Deep Core offensive... Sedriss's words, his flattery about Palpatine's return—worthless hot air. Unproven, useless.

Only one option remained—or so Reynar saw it.

Either extract evacuation ships from Thrawn using Mara Jade as leverage, or gain her support, letting her negotiate with her command. Ultimately, trade her for safe passage off-world...

— You and your allies wiped out Thrawn's legion, — Mara Jade hissed like a reptile. — Trust me, my life doesn't mean as much to him as you think. What can you offer the Grand Admiral for your skin, Inquisitor?

"Nothing," Reynar thought grimly. "Sedriss and the Dark Jedi took everything valuable—Dark Troopers, Dark Side relics—on the Nemesis's shuttles and transports."

How deftly this vixen seized control of the conversation!

Reaching out with the Force, he nearly cursed aloud! That's it?! She's using the Force to sense if he's lying! That's why she's so confident he's not bluffing! She's been playing him, reading his emotions to spot traps!

Cunning beast!

Still, they say Thrawn values information.

If he's truly defying his Imperial oath, details on the Dark Side Elite, Bast Castle's looted assets, and vague hints of Palpatine's galactic restoration from the Deep Core might intrigue him.

And if Sedriss misjudged, this intel could sway Thrawn and his fleet to the coming campaign! Then Reynar would be rewarded for his zeal!

— Emperor Palpatine lives, — he said. — He's amassing an army in the Deep Core. Soon he'll strike the New Republic and all who've forsaken their Imperial oaths! I can share much of what Sedriss told me...

— Then, — a mocking smile crossed the battered woman's lips, — you'd better be very informative. Because the Grand Admiral already knows what's happening on Byss...

Reynar felt the floor drop out from under him... She won't cooperate.

Now, only trading Jade for ships remains.

— Still, — she feigned thoughtfulness, — I think you've got something to offer Thrawn to save your worthless life, Inquisitor.

— And my soldiers' lives, — he said, swallowing her barb.

— First, Inquisitor, — she smiled, reopening every lip wound, — accept that they're no longer your soldiers...

***

— Less than a month left, — Alex reminded, meticulously checking the pyrocartridges.

— I know, — Tomax replied calmly, cross-referencing the diagnostic device's readings.

— And the prototype's still not test-ready, — the technician continued, finishing the ejection system hookup.

— But it exists, — Captain Bren paused to assess the Imperial specialist's work. — You realize the cockpit wiring's still not linked to the panel?

— I know, — Alex didn't argue. — I'm standing on it, actually.

— If you crush one wire and start a fire..., — Bren squinted, jaw tightening. The technician shot him a mocking glance.

— Don't flex your muscles, flyboy, — he advised. — You know you'd lose in a fight.

— I'm an Imperial pilot, — Tomax smirked, patting his holster. — I shoot, not fight. And with your build, you should be a stormtrooper, not a technician.

Alex chuckled, shaking his head to clear hair from his view.

— I don't like regulation haircuts, — he said, checking the indicators. — Cockpit ejection's fully functional.

Imperial technician Alex.

— We'll test it, — Tomax promised. — Repulsor thruster system's responding to the computer too.

— Well then, — Alex grinned, stepping back to scrutinize the prototype's elongated frame—cascading wires, loose modules, flat surfaces open to the breeze. — Ready for the sky.

The Imperial pilot atop the ship's skeletal frame gave it a critical once-over.

— You must be joking, — he said. — No canopy glazing, no solar panels, guns unconnected...

— Yep, — Alex nodded. — Plus, the bombing system, inertial compensator, engine software, cumulative missile launcher, bomb and torpedo rails untested... But we've done most of the work.

— We need to refine this prototype, — Tomax repeated. — If the Grand Admiral doesn't like its combat performance, it'll just rust in some hangar corner.

— Always such a pessimist? — Alex asked. — It's a solid machine. Math models show high performance. Your Scimitars will go into production, trust me.

— Then stop slacking and secure the wiring under the cockpit, — Tomax said. — That's an order, mechanic.

— Technician, — Alex corrected. — The only one assigned to indulge your engineering genius, Captain. The other shipyard workers have bigger priorities.

— Sometimes I regret you civvies were conscripted, — Tomax sighed. — You lot know nothing of discipline.

— But we know Imperial fighters' guts, — Alex countered, returning to the prototype. Ducking under the cockpit's edge, he settled on a rolling cart to work its innards. The mechanism creaked under his weight but held. — Though I agree with the chief engineer—twin ion engines would've fit better than this single one.

— With upgrades, this engine hits thirteen hundred kilometers per hour in vacuum, — Tomax's voice carried a hint of offense as pilot, designer, and visionary. — At

— Sure the TIE Bomber's creators thought the same, — Alex said, deftly tucking wires into the fuselage. — And how'd that turn out?

— For its time, Sienar's bomber was decent, — Bren argued. — But enemy tech advanced, ours didn't. Our brass prefers saving credits over buying top-tier gear. So when we finish this, it'll push TIE Bombers out of the hangars.

— I'll hold off on predictions 'til I see it, — Alex said. — Great concept—speed, maneuverability, ejectable cockpit for pilot and gunner. Huge survivability leap. But I'm not sold on mass production replacing standard bombers. That needs production lines, parts manufacturing, assembly... Millions of credits for a conveyor.

— Hand-building's inefficient, — Tomax said. — Too costly, high per-unit price. We've already sunk two hundred fifty thousand credits into this prototype.

— No one'd build a basic bomber for that, — Alex lamented. — Mass production's the only way to cut costs. Man, add deflectors and a hyperdrive...

— And we'd get an Imperial wishbone, — Bren laughed. — I'm done with the scanning and targeting systems.

— I've nearly stowed all the wiring, — Alex reported. — And wishbones are those Republic BTL-Bs, right?

— Yep, — Tomax confirmed. — Droids are here, starting hull plating. How long you got?

— Just twenty wires and tubes to secure, — the technician said. — Yeah, those are tough machines, but they can't match much.

— Progress marches on, — came from the captain. — Outdated tech used 'til it falls apart.

— Sounds familiar, huh? — Alex chuckled, twisting signal wires from cockpit to launcher and securing them inside.

The Imperial pilot fell meaningfully silent.

The Imperial technician smirked to himself, continuing to tune the new machine's circuits and systems.

And work on the Scimitar assault bomber prototype pressed on...