Grand Admiral

Nine years, six months, and twenty-eight days after the Battle of Yavin…

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

Rukh was born into the Baik'vair clan, one of the many Noghri clans inhabiting their homeworld, Honoghr. A medium-sized planet located in the star system of the same name within the Kessel sector of the Outer Rim. Familiar with Imperial astrogation, Rukh could easily locate his native world in Grand Admiral Thrawn's military fleet astrogation manual—if he were to look at quadrant T-10.

He had learned much during the years he spent in the Grand Admiral's service.

Killing with skill was something he, like many Noghri, had mastered almost from birth. As was remaining unnoticed under any circumstances.

The Empire had taught him to wield a blaster, handle mines, explosives, poisons, and other deadly tools of the Noghri death commando trade.

He and his brothers could pilot ships, understood technology, and had traveled to many worlds across the vast galaxy—something their ancestors could only dream of as they sat under quiet night skies, gazing at the myriad stars above. Stars their descendants would journey to, carrying out the will of their masters upon the other sentients of the galaxy.

The will of death, serving as executioners…

Honoghr before the Clone Wars.

He grew up and came of age during a deeply troubled time for his people. A time when the planet was dying. He never knew Honoghr in its flourishing state, providing its sentient inhabitants with all they needed. Verdant continents teeming with wildlife, forests, lakes, and seas…

The catastrophe of a crashed starship that destroyed Honoghr's ecosystem occurred before he was born. He could only judge the beauty and grandeur of his world from the tales of the elders and matriarchs—those who had lived on the planet before the disaster.

Now, he and the other relatively young Noghri, returning to their homeworld, saw only a repulsive-colored planetoid shrouded in a sparse haze of dirty gray clouds. And the crimson expanses of Honoghr's surface, like healing wounds on a dying world.

Kholm-grass, the plant that had eradicated all vegetation on the planet.

A plant that, according to the matriarchs, had always existed on Honoghr.

A plant that was killing Honoghr's flora—if Grand Admiral Thrawn's words were to be believed.

The planet Honoghr (as it appears in current events).

Yet despite the Imperial Supreme Commander's candor, Rukh, who had served the Grand Admiral for years, still couldn't verify whether he had spoken the truth or lied. Thrawn, renowned for his intricate and ingenious tactical maneuvers, might have misled the Noghri—a suspicion some clan matriarchs had voiced unwittingly when Rukh arrived on Honoghr and relayed the words of the sentient he had guarded for years, serving loyally.

The former bodyguard sat on the steps leading into the depths of a massive structure that had stood on Honoghr for thousands of years, gazing at the night sky. He sat and waited for the matriarchs and their attendants to finish their work within the ancient edifice.

The collective memory of the Noghri could no longer provide a clear answer to who had built this magnificent structure. It inspired awe with its monumental scale and the beauty of its forms…

And it instilled fear. As if the oppressive aura of this place repelled all living things.

The Noghri believed it had been constructed by gods. For generations, they had protected this temple, alongside its mechanical guardians, whose numbers dwindled with each passing year. They broke down, and there was no one left to repair them. The fewer mechanical sentinels remained, the more Noghri came here to safeguard the structure.

The Rakata temple on Honoghr.

It stood in one of the few remaining patches of the planet where life still flickered. This sacred place the Noghri hid from all who visited their world—even from their lord, Darth Vader. The Imperial garrison stationed on the planet had never learned of this fertile remnant either. They had all been wiped out by mercenaries of the Zann Consortium. Many Noghri were taken captive and removed from the planet.

Their lord, Darth Vader, executed every survivor of the Imperial remnant after the raid, deeming them failures in their assigned task. Since then, the Noghri had defended their world alone—Imperials merely assisted in maintaining the decontamination droids. And continued poisoning their planet…

— The matriarchs have finished their council, — another Noghri silently settled beside him on the steps. Rukh had no need to turn his head to recognize the newcomer. A dear brother, a member of the same clan as Rukh himself.

— What decision have they reached, Mushkil? — Rukh asked. They spoke quietly in their native tongue, and hearing it while conversing with his blade-brother was as pleasant as breathing the air of their homeworld. Though it lacked the scents of blooming plants and the chirping of birds, though it resembled the artificial atmosphere of an Imperial Star Destroyer, it was still sweeter than any other.

— The matriarchs have verified the Grand Admiral's words, — his blade-brother replied. — They compared them to the data left behind by the Imperials…

— And? — Rukh growled the question softly.

— He did not lie to us, — Mushkil said. Pain was evident in his voice. He, like many Noghri, would have preferred the Grand Admiral to have deceived them… Because if he had, their faith in their lord Darth Vader could have endured…

"Our former lord," Rukh corrected himself mentally.

— And now what? — he pressed. — What do the matriarchs and dynasts intend to do next?

— They're at odds, — Mushkil said. — Some wish to send emissaries to the Grand Admiral and re-enter his service, believing he exposed the deception. They think he provided transports with food, decontamination droids, and reagents, and left us all the Imperial equipment purely out of goodwill, to atone for the harm done.

— That could be true, — Rukh replied diplomatically, withholding his own opinion. — And what do the others say? There must be an alternative perspective.

— Most call for using everything we have now to restore and protect Honoghr, — Mushkil continued. — The Grand Admiral has given us much… But the matriarchs don't believe in the Emperor Palpatine's return. The clans won't abandon Honoghr—we'll save our planet. Even now, we can clear many fields and sow them for a substantial harvest. With the supplies you brought from Tangrene, we can survive several months without hunger. And considering the reserves from earlier shipments, the matriarchs estimate we have enough for a year.

— That was generous of him, — Rukh said, still gazing at the stars. What had he expected, really? — To provide ten million Noghri with food for a year…

— The Empire was never so generous to us, — Mushkil remarked.

They sat and admired the stars, just as their ancestors had… Rukh had been among the stars, as had other Noghri in the death commando units. Mushkil… he was still too young for that. His training would conclude only next year, and then…

— What future awaits us, brother? — Mushkil asked softly. — Everything we believed in was a lie.

— A mistake we'll never repeat, — Rukh said with conviction. He listened. In the distance, he heard the hum of ship engines—the kind used by death commandos for their missions. Now, those starships roamed Honoghr in search of…

— They're heading to the old Imperial base, — Rukh realized, his keen eyes spotting several ships with familiar silhouettes against the night sky.

— The matriarchs decided to restore the defenses destroyed by the Zann Consortium fighters, — Mushkil explained. — They'll dismantle a few ships to repair the broken defense systems. The death commandos will be stationed there now—the matriarchs decided they'll serve to protect the Noghri people, as the most skilled among our clans…

— Every Noghri is a master of the blade and killing, — Rukh countered. — We don't need to protect ourselves—Noghri don't kill Noghri. The dynasts sent the death commandos there because they're familiar with Imperial systems.

— It's defense against invasion, brother, — his clan-mate beside him said.

— The matriarchs fear Thrawn will come to destroy us, — Rukh understood.

Mushkil didn't reply. Nor was it necessary.

Had this happened before that conversation with the Grand Admiral, the former bodyguard would already be spilling the matriarchs' blood on the ancient temple's stones. In the past, he had killed those who even spoke ill of the Imperials. But now… It was all meaningless.

As was rebuilding the Imperial base.

Anything valuable there had long been removed by the Noghri—right after the Zann Consortium forces departed. The surviving Imperials had managed some repairs before Darth Vader finished them off, and the base was abandoned.

And now the Noghri wanted to use it to defend the planet from invasion… A pair of turbolasers against the hundreds of cannons a single Imperial warship could bring to bear…

Foolish. The dynasts were simply afraid.

— He won't come, — Rukh declared confidently.

After the Grand Admiral returned from the Unknown Regions, Rukh had been among the first recruits in his service. Showing no fear in the face of the Empire's far more advanced technology, the Noghri had so impressed Thrawn that he made him his personal bodyguard.

Serving such an esteemed figure was considered an incredible honor for a clan warrior, and Rukh believed his service to Thrawn brought prestige to both the Baik'vair clan and himself. This position had made him one of the highest-ranking Noghri in Imperial service.

But that no longer mattered…

What mattered was that Rukh, who rarely strayed far from his master, remaining a shadow until ordered to kill, had come to know Thrawn's habits well. Thrawn had changed significantly after the raid on Obroa-skai. Outwardly, he was the same sentient, but to one who lurked in the shadows and observed everything, it was clear the Grand Admiral was not the same being he had been upon his return.

Something in him had shifted. The elusive sheen of mystery had faded, replaced by a sentient who seemed to have taken a blow to the gut.

Obroa-skai had changed everything. His unshakable faith in the Empire had wavered.

And Rukh knew why.

It was then that the Grand Admiral began to suspect the Empire he served was not what it claimed to be. He had told Rukh as much, and his other words had proven true. So the rest must be as well.

What the Noghri were experiencing now, the Grand Admiral had gone through just over two months ago. He undoubtedly knew many of the Galactic Empire's secrets—his duty demanded it. He had ordered ruthless actions more than once or twice himself… But in recent weeks, those orders had drastically decreased. Rukh had witnessed discussions of vast amounts of secret and confidential data that Thrawn once shared with Imperials without hesitation, untroubled by his bodyguard's presence.

Because he trusted Rukh. And continued to do so even after learning of the Empire's baseness toward the people of Honoghr. He had done everything to make amends, until…

— What did the matriarchs decide about Darth Vader's offspring? — the former bodyguard asked his friend. In his youth, Mushkil had served as a gatekeeper at clan leader meetings, so he had seen and heard much…

— Nothing, — his blade-brother replied confidently. — The matriarchs condemned the father's sins, but the offspring bear no guilt. The dynasts accepted their decision. Luke Skywalker will live, as will any other descendants of Darth Vader. The Noghri won't aid them, but neither will we hold their parent's deeds against them.

— And what if Thrawn was right and Palpatine comes for us? — Rukh asked.

— The matriarchs are concerned and would like to secure the Grand Admiral's support. The dynasts think it's just a scare tactic, — Mushkil sighed. He trusted his blade-brother's judgment more than the clan leaders'. — There's no proof, so…

There was no need to finish the sentence. Rukh understood.

Thrawn wanted to save them from a terrible fate, even as he himself was in a precarious position.

The Grand Admiral was undergoing a catharsis—he couldn't abandon his plans, or his own subordinates would tear him apart. He couldn't leave—they simply wouldn't let him.

All that remained was to stay the course of restoring the Empire. To act in a way that preserved the best of it and built the just state he had spoken of.

One against all threats…

Rukh rose to his feet. For the first time in years of service, he did so slowly, not as battle demanded.

— Watch over Honoghr in my stead, — he extended a hand to his blade-brother. Mushkil instinctively grasped the inner forearm of the other Noghri and pulled himself up with a jerk, locking eyes with his kin.

— You don't have to leave, Rukh, — the native tongue caressed his ears. When would he hear it from other sentients again? — The Noghri have no masters now, and we owe nothing to anyone… The Noghri believe in the rebirth of our world and a bright future… The matriarchs will brand you a traitor… Your name will be struck from the clan lists and cursed. Like those who went to find the invisible planet and never returned…

— Perhaps, brother, — the former bodyguard looked toward where the death commando ships had flown. Two turbolasers against hundreds… — But there's something stronger than the fear of being deliberately forgotten. I, too, believe in the future, Mushkil. And I believe in Thrawn. Palpatine will come for us. To destroy us or force us back into service, I don't know. But he will come. And while the matriarchs and dynasts squabble over power, we're in danger. We can't save ourselves.

— Then what do you intend to do? — his blade-brother asked quietly.

— I'll ensure Honoghr has an impenetrable defense, — Rukh replied firmly, gazing at the stars, committing their pattern to memory…

— Will you manage it before Palpatine arrives? If he comes at all… — doubt crept into the young Noghri's voice. His fingers dug into Rukh's forearm with force. To an ordinary sentient, it would have been unbearable pain, but the former bodyguard was too preoccupied to notice such a trifle.

— I will, — Rukh promised steadfastly, meeting his kin's gaze. — I'll come for him first.

***

— Grand Admiral, — Captain Pellaeon's voice crackled through the comlink. — The Chimaera and Nemesis are arriving at the Tangrene base. The Bellicose and Stormhawk will complete their transit fifteen minutes after us.

Enough time to navigate the numerous cloaked asteroids scattered beyond Tangrene's orbit, a hundred units from its perimeter. A vast sphere of invisible protection… Too dispersed to fully block or destroy anything attempting an uninvited visit. But the work continues tirelessly…

— Has the base's operations control provided the fairway coordinates? — I asked, my gaze lingering on the youthful, vigorous body of the red-haired woman floating in the bacta tank. A body that, in four days, had shed the marks of abuse and beatings sustained on Vjun. Mara Jade was immersed in a healing slumber, preparing her to return to form when I'd need her again.

— Affirmative, sir, — Pellaeon replied. — Moff Ferrus also instructs that two hundred more asteroids have been delivered to orbit, and preparatory work is underway.

— Has the fleet arrived? — I inquired. They were supposed to return hours earlier by the plan.

— Not entirely, sir, — Pellaeon's voice betrayed no hint of the tragedy that might match the situation. — The captured corvettes, escort frigates, both enemy-upgraded Star Destroyers, the Red Dragon, Phoenix, Colicoid Swarm, Star Galleons, and captured medium transports have arrived, along with all ships involved in the assault, except for five Star Destroyers and those lost in battle. The fate of ten captured Mon Calamari star cruisers, all four defense stations, and both orbital repair yards remains unknown. Attempts to contact them have failed. Sir, it seems those ships are lost…

— Unfortunately, we must acknowledge, Captain, that the idea of moving objects with jury-rigged hyperdrives and navigation systems is doomed to fail, — I stated. — As is relying on outdated droids to replace crews.

— Yes, sir, — Pellaeon agreed. — Moff Ferrus reports that the remaining ships needing repairs are already at the finishing docks, with shipyard resources allocated to return them to service as soon as possible.

— Any messages from Wayland? — I asked.

— All remains quiet, sir, no reports of threats, — the Chimaera's commander replied. — General Covell reports he's begun executing your orders.

— Excellent, — so all was well. That left only the concern of ensuring enough time for evacuation. — Data from the Nemesis?

— Processed and analyzed, sir, — Pellaeon answered. — It matches Captain Von Schneider's account precisely. He and his crew did indeed destroy two Procursators…

— Don't forget to nominate the ship's commander and crew for commendations, — I said. — Also, inform Baron D'Asta of my readiness to meet him in a week.

— The Baron has already sent a message, sir, — the captain replied. — He's available to meet at the end of next week. He leaves the choice of location to you. Verbally, he asked me to convey his immense satisfaction with the outcome. However, his aide warned that the meeting date might shift—the Baron has urgent matters.

Hm… interesting. I'd thought I'd soon have to "confess" to the aristocrat that I had no involvement in the attack on Hast's shipyards. Declining credit for something I didn't do would be noble, honest, and honorable. In short—utterly un-Imperial.

It seems the Baron is well-informed about my affairs. Hardly surprising, given he supplied us with a substantial number of fighter and interceptor pilots. That aid arrived just in time. And, undeniably, we received exceptional pilots—competent, familiar with Imperial tech, and superbly trained.

Moreover, vetted by the ISB, which found no evidence of potential espionage. Still, Lieutenant Colonel Astarion will have a chance to uncover the reason behind my "allies'" excessive awareness. I'm beginning to suspect the "mole" or "moles" are among the civilian staff. Good thing they're currently in a comms-jamming zone, along with half the Katana Fleet and other "lost trophies."

— Has Inquisitor Obscuro's interrogation concluded? — I asked.

— Affirmative, sir, — a note of satisfaction crept into Gilad's voice. — That sentient revealed much of interest… I've prepared a report for you. We have the frequencies to contact the death commandos on Yalara. We can depart anytime.

As long as it's not a trap.

— I'll be on the bridge in a few minutes, Captain, — I said as the red-haired vixen's body twitched, and her green eyes snapped open. They fixed on me almost instantly… brimming with questions. So many questions. — Welcome back, Mara Jade.

The woman gave a playful salute, continuing to watch me through the transparent mask supplying breath and nutrients. Those green eyes seemed intent on burning through me, like turbolaser beams…

— You undoubtedly have many questions, — I said, observing her from the comfort of my chair. — You'll get answers. Let's start in order.

She raised her right eyebrow quizzically.

— First, your mission on Vjun ended in near failure, — I began. — The data from Bast Castle is lost, as are the relics I'd hoped for. Palpatine's minions took everything of value.

She narrowed her eyes, clearly suggesting she'd done all she could.

— That's precisely why Inquisitor Obscuro is necessary to us now, — I continued. — His loyalty to his word is a matter for separate verification. But his knowledge—particularly regarding the Force—is what we need for specific purposes. Recruiting him was a necessity to avoid admitting outright defeat at Vjun.

The woman floated in the gelatinous mass, clad in a form-fitting medical suit that concealed her nudity. But accentuated… Hm, if I were twenty years younger…

— We must assume Palpatine knows a great deal about my intentions by now, — I went on. — Thus, several of my operations must be accelerated. That requires a high-ranking agent operating independently, relying solely on themselves. You'll need to return to your roots, Mara Jade—you'll vanish from everyone who knew you.

She squinted. I'm certain she'd love to probe my thoughts and emotions with the Force, but the ysalamiri dozing peacefully on the chair's back had its own opinion on that. What an interesting, eventful life that little lizard leads.

— You've done much for our shared cause, Lieutenant Jade, — I continued, turning the nearest medical monitor toward her. — However, your falsified health records led to unfortunate consequences…

The red-haired vixen shot me an indignant glare. She slammed a fist against the transparisteel cylinder of the bacta tank.

— Concealing information about your health while serving in the Imperial armed forces is a military offense, — I pressed on. — I regret to inform you, Lieutenant Jade, that the droids' attempts to save your life after the brutal beatings you endured from the enemy during a critical mission failed. By hiding your bacta intolerance from us, you effectively killed yourself the moment the droids began repairing your body…

Mara Jade pounded the transparisteel with furious fists and feet, desperate to escape the confined space…

— Your courage will be an example to us all, — I continued, touching the controls of the bacta tank. In the next moment, the liquid inside churned, drowning out the sounds of her body striking the transparisteel…

***

After finishing her speech, Mon Mothma sank into her chair, offering a grateful smile to her numerous supporters, most of whom applauded her nearly standing.

She was genuinely flattered that two-thirds of the New Republic Senate endorsed her call for a restrained development course and cautious selection of future member worlds. In these challenging times for the New Republic…

— On behalf of the people of Bothawui, — Counselor Fey'lya's voice cut through the applause, amplified by hidden speakers in the room's corners, — and myself personally, I thank Head of the Provisional Council Mon Mothma for her speech. In such difficult times, with threats looming over us all and the democratic state we've built, her motivating words—spoken by the one who has effectively led us for nearly a decade since the Battle of Yavin IV—are exactly what we need…

Muted chuckles rippled among the senators. The third who had remained silent during her address now chose to make themselves heard. Well, that's why democracy had been established in the New Republic—freedom of thought and expression.

Mon continued listening to the Bothan's speech. As she'd suspected from their last meeting, he'd studied her arguments against him. Now, like a virtuoso musician, he played the crowd's emotions, dismantling the accusations of incompetence and failures attributed to the New Republic military under his command. Nothing new… And everyone present knew it was mere slander and bluster—an attempt to cling to a slipping pinnacle. Borsk, more than anyone, understood the case against Gial Ackbar wasn't worth a cracked egg. Soon, the Mon Calamari would return to his post, sort out the chaos, and devise a way to counter the Imperial threat. While the Bothans tried to pin treason on him, the renowned fleet commander had had ample time in the quiet of his apartment to review all military developments and think. Think deeply. And if Ackbar was right, he'd finally pinpointed weaknesses in his unseen adversary's tactics. He might even predict some moves. But for certainty, the Mon Calamari would need more time to correlate data and locate the enemy's base… For now, he could only estimate that the Imperial was striking from somewhere in the New Territories—the galaxy's western reaches—and likely from border systems…

Meanwhile, the Bothan bared his fangs, his rhetoric sharp as he lambasted the Mon Calamari for their futile defense of Hast's shipyards, allowing the enemy not just to attack but to obliterate every ship and facility in the system. He'd criticized their rescue of New Alderaan too—though, as a skilled intriguer, he did so safely. Not for aiding the attacked planet, but for not maintaining a permanent base there. Even when the need arose, he argued, they'd sent too few forces, letting the aggressor escape…

Rhetoric that amounted to little more than shifting water from one part of an ocean to another… The Mon Calamari sector senator didn't even dignify it with attention. But the Bothan's focus lay elsewhere…

— How could we, — Fey'lya's voice boomed, — I ask you, senators, how could we, after all the Alderaanian refugees endured—the loss of their homeworld, their role in the Rebellion, their invaluable debt that helped us defeat the Empire—resettle them on a remote planet and leave them defenseless?! I was furious and ashamed, — politics is a path of flattery and deceit, and no one in the Imperial Palace believes Bothans, especially Fey'lya, ever feel shame, — when I learned that after Warlord Zsinj's attack on New Alderaan two years ago, we neither relocated the survivors from a compromised location nor bothered to establish a basic outpost! The previous military leadership didn't even consider it?! It's appalling! It's outrageous! How much more must the poor Alderaanians suffer due to our negligence?! I declare responsibly, hear me, peoples of the New Republic! The threat to our shared home ends now! I've ordered sector fleets to establish relentless patrols for constant monitoring of our protected territories… Yes, — he conceded to the crowd's outrage, — it'll cost us dearly. But consider for a moment: could we have avoided the casualties and destruction on New Alderaan if a Mon Calamari star cruiser from a nearby base had been on duty there? — The senators fell silent, unwilling to appear as if they questioned the Alderaanians' sacred sacrifice…

— Counselor, — Mon Mothma drew attention to herself. — Your words burn as fiercely as your heart, — "And are as empty as your head," — but could you elaborate on why the enemy invaded Hast's shipyards, destroyed our work and thousands of our sentients, and nearly two weeks later, we still don't know who's behind this dishonor to our valiant military?

Shouts of approval urged Fey'lya to finally provide answers… The Bothan bared his teeth, casting her a promising glance.

— I'm getting to that, ladies and gentlemen, — he assured… and resumed shaking the air with empty slogans and calls…

Mon rolled her eyes, shaking her head. Fey'lya's speech had already stolen three hours of her life… Three hours that could've been spent on something more useful…

A faint breeze brushed her back, and she sensed another woman slip into her booth and sit beside her. Glancing at Princess Leia Organa Solo's aide, Winter, Mon couldn't read the Alderaanian's inner state from her expression.

— Is something wrong? — she asked.

— Fey'lya's stalling, — Winter whispered back. — I just spoke with fleet command on Dac—in your name, of course. They told me that on the day of the Hast attack, a message arrived from the shipyards. It clearly identified the Imperial flagship leading the assault, with its designation.

— What?! — Mon Mothma gasped quietly. — Borsk has known who attacked Hast's shipyards for nine days?

— Yes, — Winter replied. — It turns out the Mon Calamari sector fleet's long-range comms are run by Bothans. They ordered the data seized almost immediately after contacting someone on Coruscant. Then they were transferred to Counselor Fey'lya's office. I spoke with several officers—they claim Bothans are actively taking posts across the fleet. It seems Counselor Fey'lya either knew or suspected an attack on Hast's shipyards was coming.

— So there's no hard evidence? — Mon Mothma's voice faltered. Ackbar had warned her that striking that shipyard was an obvious target for an Imperial commander… though he'd said it an hour after the attack.

— I assume he'll present it soon, — Winter said. — I doubt he called this meeting just to waste every senator's time…

— Did the Mon Calamari name the attacker? — Mon Mothma pressed.

— The flagship broadcast transponder signals as the Reckoning, — Winter explained. Mon stared at her in shock.

— Prince-Admiral Krennel? — The Alderaanian nodded silently. Mon's thoughts tangled… An infamous Imperial warlord with a sadistic, xenophobic streak, launching an attack on shipyards where everything was utterly destroyed… Ackbar's words about the attack originating from sectors bordering the New Republic… It was a stretch, but Krennel's domains could loosely qualify as border systems. Still, something felt off.

— Every ship broadcast transponder codes from the Ciutric Hegemony fleet, — Winter elaborated. — But the problem is, Ciutric IV didn't have that many 'Imperials.' At least not until Krennel arrived.

— Why would Imperials even activate transponders? — the Provisional Government head wondered aloud. — Ackbar said they avoid that…

— From what I know, the Imperials wanted us to know who attacked, — the white-haired Alderaanian replied.

— Why would they do that? — Mon Mothma's mind raced. — Our fleet is hundreds of times stronger than Krennel's… He's just drawing fire, as if inviting…

— It could be a trap, — Winter suggested. — Though that's unlikely, given Krennel favors brute force and…

— And now, esteemed senators, — Mon thought the Bothan's voice grew louder, — two facts for which we've all gathered today…

— I don't like this, — Mon Mothma whispered, but Winter heard her.

— The Head of the Provisional Government asked me to name the culprit behind the ruthless attack on Hast's shipyards, — the Bothan continued. — For nearly two weeks, the valiant Bothan intelligence network has worked tirelessly to identify the Imperial responsible. Since attacks began on our bases and planets, we've hunted the enemy… And found him. I'm pleased to announce that soon, the New Republic's Fourth Fleet, stationed on my homeworld of Bothawui, supported by the Bothan fleet, will strike the Ciutric Hegemony. Its leader, Prince-Admiral Delak Krennel—who flouts all norms of morality, law, and reason—not only personally executed the rightful ruler of those territories and seized power, holding the Hegemony's people in his dictatorial grip, but continues active military operations against us despite the neutrality between the New Republic and Imperial Remnants! We'll destroy the tyrant and liberate the Hegemony's people, showing the galaxy that, as ever and into the future, the New Republic stands to protect its people and their lives…

— Counselor Fey'lya, — Mon Mothma rose from her seat. — In the past, we've tried repeatedly to identify and eliminate enemies, only to fall into traps where our forces couldn't withstand counterattacks… There's a strong chance we'll be deceived again and…

— Counselor Mothma, — the Bothan snarled, his fur rippling, — this time, failure is impossible.

— What gives you such certainty, Counselor? — a senator shouted.

— We're destined for success for two reasons, — Fey'lya grinned. — First, the Fourth New Republic Fleet is led by a star superdreadnought commanded by our valiant military, including natives of my homeworld, Bothawui. And second… — he paused theatrically, — new, irrefutable evidence has emerged in the case accusing Admiral Ackbar of treason, proving his collaboration with the Empire… — Mon Mothma felt her legs weaken. A murmur of confusion rose among the senators, laced with loud cries of offense and… calls for vengeance against the traitor…

In an instant, those indebted to the Mon Calamari—even for their lives—turned against him. Judging by the comments, in rather creative ways.

The machinery of democracy was gaining momentum…

***

The event was meant as a small party to lift the squadron's spirits. No matter how hard Wedge tried to spin it—that Corran Horn was on a secret mission—the pilots couldn't be fooled. They'd fought side by side too long to miss the falseness in command's words or their intent to hush up the real state of affairs.

They were the best at what they did. Over years of teamwork, the pilots had come to know each other's personalities, strengths, and weaknesses intimately. Without that, cohesive, effective action—ridding the galaxy of Imperial holdouts—was impossible. If you didn't know your wingman or leader as well as yourself, you'd never gel, never achieve peak performance.

Wedge, brushing an unruly lock of hair from his face with a gust of breath, looked with poorly concealed pain at the nine pilots of Rogue Squadron surrounding young Gavin Darklighter. The grief-stricken boy—one of the youngest in his unit—sat with slumped shoulders. He didn't cry; like the others, he'd faced too many situations over the years—ones only loosely describable as "unfavorable"—for Wedge to keep count.

But the boy needed comfort.

Today, he'd learned his uncle, Huff Darklighter, had died. Though stationed nearby, news from Tatooine had taken unforgivably long to reach him… Tusken Raiders had attacked his uncle's farm. Neither warning systems nor well-armed, trained guards stopped them. The Tuskens came at night, slaughtering everyone they could, looting what they found, torching the residence, and vanishing into the desert… As always.

No matter how many tales of Tusken Raiders he'd heard—from Gavin, Skywalker, or other Tatooinians he knew—nothing changed. Bloodthirsty monsters who should've been dealt with long ago, brought to justice…

Wedge vividly recalled what Huff meant to Gavin—a man who'd raised him and forged his character. He'd aided them when Rogue Squadron broke from New Republic jurisdiction to wage war on Ysanne Isard. To every pilot in the squadron, that man was more than a name on their long journey… He was a friend.

Wedge understood Darklighter's feelings—he'd felt the same when he learned of Mirax's disappearance, the woman who'd become like a sister to him. Booster Terrik's vanishing—the man who'd helped him avenge his family's death, sheltered, and warmed him—had nearly broken him. As had news of Princess Leia, Generals Kracken, and Calrissian going missing for his deputy, Tycho Celchu… Wedge had felt utter emotional desolation upon hearing it… As if someone was deliberately stripping him of friends and loved ones… Even that Alderaanian girl with the funny hairstyles he'd played snowballs with on Hoth… One blow of fate after another. It took immense courage to endure.

He knew the pain his pilot was suffering now. And, as callous as it sounded, he thought Gavin might have it slightly easier than he did… because Wedge had no idea what had happened to the people who'd become his family. Were they dead or captured by Imperials? Neither option was the "lesser evil."

Wedge glanced at the seated Gavin again. He was holding up… Beside him sat his beloved, the Bothan Asyr Sei'lar, stroking his head and whispering words of comfort…

The party, meant to ease the tension from recent events—escalating with the Imperial attacks and peaking with General Solo's disappearance—had turned into a profoundly somber affair… Even the promotion he'd had to accept, becoming a general and taking command of both his former squadron and the forces once led by Lando Calrissian, brought no joy… A minor political maneuver by Mon Mothma to keep the Bothans from seizing control of all New Republic military groups… Fey'lya hadn't forced reassignments yet, but oddly, every vacant high-ranking post seemed to find a Bothan officer to fill it… At least half the fleets were still led by trusted old friends… Even the group once assigned to General Solo… Who'd also vanished…

What was happening to this galaxy?! If Imperials weren't behind most of these disappearances, Wedge might've thought his friends had all decided to vacation on some tropical planet… and forgotten to send him the coordinates.

Wedge took a sip of whiskey that tasted bitter. He looked at Gavin again… He didn't join the collective comforting. He'd offered his condolences to Darklighter privately, noting inwardly that the boy had taken the blow stoically… Only the alcohol had cracked his emotional armor… Now he resembled the lanky, brown-eyed teen he'd been when he joined the squadron. His soft speech, openness, and friendliness had won over every pilot, fostering trust.

In three years, the boy had matured unmistakably, growing a mustache and short beard. War had turned a farmer from a backwater planet into an ace pilot and a man who thought before acting. He'd thought he could bear this grief alone. Tried to emulate Wedge, facing each loss head-on, one-on-one.

He couldn't. He didn't break down sobbing, but he was close. Without Asyr beside him, Gavin might've succumbed to his emotions. A native of Bothawui, Asyr was nothing like her partner. Next to the tall Darklighter, she seemed even shorter, a kitten with black-and-white fur. But not today. Definitely not today.

On this crucial day for Gavin, she was a big cat—a predator tenderly guarding her vulnerable cub. Her violet eyes, once always sparking with mischief, were clouded with sorrow. Despite her apparent fragility, she'd always made it clear with every move that she could hold her own. After joining the squadron, she'd shown complete unity with the other pilots. Defying Bothan military and government higher-ups, she stayed with the squadron, refusing to return home as a living hero. She didn't abandon her relationship with Gavin, despite their bond being unable to produce the natural outcome of two sentients of the same or related species. Biology couldn't be overcome… But these two were unbreakable. Against all odds, they were always together. It took immense willpower to defy external pressures and kin's disapproval—especially for a Bothan. But Asyr had willpower to spare. And she shared it with Darklighter.

— He'll manage, — Tycho Celchu said quietly, sitting beside him.

— And you..? — Wedge looked at him, puzzled, shaking his head.

— Wedge, — the Alderaanian ace and old friend said peaceably, — you've been staring at the couch everyone's already left for five minutes…

— Oh, — was all Wedge could muster, swirling the remnants in his glass. — Got lost in thought.

— Happens to you sometimes, — Tycho teased, sipping his drink. — Rarely, but…

— Tycho, — Wedge addressed his friend softly.

— All ears, General, — despite the smile on Tycho's face, pain shone through. Like it did for all of them… Pain even Corellian whiskey couldn't drown…

— You know you can't rib a superior officer?

— Of course, General, — Tycho replied dutifully. — But there's a couple issues here, dear General. First—only I know about your promotion out of the whole squadron. And that's just because you dumped the squadron commander duties on me…

— The Rogues can't fall into Bothan hands, — Wedge said firmly.

— Fully support that effort, — Tycho agreed. — And second, per the tradition set by the previous Rogue Squadron commander, the squad leader's obliged to make their boss want to strangle and commend them at the same time.

— And which idiot instilled that in my pilots? — grumbled one of the New Republic's youngest generals, also the first of two Rogue Squadron commanders in its history. Both of whom were currently seated side by side…

— It'll be tough, — Wedge said.

— No one's saying otherwise, — Tycho agreed.

— I mean we've got two vacancies, — Wedge winced. — Mine and Horn's…

— Technically, you could stay squadron commander while leading the fleet, — the Alderaanian suggested. — Heard of Imperial Admiral Shi Hablin? Despite his high rank, he still flies a fighter in combat.

— Suggesting we take a page from the Imperials? — Wedge forced a smile.

— We've borrowed plenty from them, — Tycho shrugged. — Tactics, strategy… And I'm sure generals can bend the rules a little.

— Fey'lya'll devour me, insignia and all, — Wedge sighed. — The moment he hears I'm still flying with the Rogues, he'll issue a thousand orders to ruin my life. And everyone else's in command… I don't want to start my career by dumping Tatooine sand in my fellow sufferers' fuel tanks…

— Then we urgently need at least two top-notch pilots, — Tycho declared.

— "At least"?! — Wedge tensed, quickly scanning for his pilots… One, two, three, five, seven, nine… — Am I missing something?!

— Gavin plans to take leave and head to Tatooine to help his aunt, — Tycho explained. — Or rather, Asyr suggested it… He missed the funeral by a long shot, but he can at least offer condolences…

— No need to elaborate, — Wedge sighed. — Let him go. With Sei'lar.

— Support's crucial in tough times, — Tycho agreed. — As for vacancies… We should hold Horn's spot, keep feeding command the secret mission story… But…

— That charade won't last long, — Wedge sighed, rolling his eyes. — We need to fill the gaps with old friends—good thing some are still alive. Can you remember a single year without losses, Tycho?

— Do you really want to hear that? — the Alderaanian asked.

— No, — Wedge exhaled heavily. — We can't take just anyone into the squadron. A scrap with Imperials starts, and it's over—every downed rookie they shove on us, then shoot down, the Imperials'll inflate into galactic core propaganda.

— I'd worry more about setups from our commander-in-chief, — Tycho said grimly, refilling his glass and downing it in one gulp. — Lately, he's been… cough… suspiciously lucky. Too lucky, I'd say!

— What's that about? — Wedge frowned, recalling how he'd barely escaped the last day's endless command meetings. They'd seemed intent on draining the young, hot-blooded general tasked with commanding a fleet on Christophsis and rebuilding a base on Ord Pardron the Imps had flattened weeks ago… — Once Ackbar's back, it'll all settle down.

— That'll be a lot harder now, — Tycho said.

— Alright, — Wedge swiveled on his barstool, fixing his comrade with a sharp look. — Spill it.

— Your and Corran's mutual friend, Iella Wessiri, dug into it, — Wedge felt his heart drop at the mention of the woman who'd helped the Rogues take Coruscant. And whom he was hopelessly… — She investigated the treason case against Admiral Ackbar…

— It's all just fantasies and lies, — Wedge scowled.

— Everyone thought so, — Tycho agreed. — But Iella found a bank vault on Coruscant. A very interesting vault…

— If you don't stop building suspense out of thin air, I'll be seriously ticked, — Wedge warned. — We'll head to the X-Wings and settle who's…

— Copies of reports delivered to Ackbar by Princess Leia, General Kracken, and other sympathizers were found in the vault, — Tycho said quickly. — Iella traced it to Ackbar's aide, who suddenly vanished… That's why they looked into banking records—for leads. And they found them.

— Hold on, — Wedge protested. — What's the aide got to do with Ackbar?

— They searched his place, — Tycho continued. — Looking for other documents.

— Did they find any?

— No…

— Then what..?

— They found Killik Twilight, — Tycho Celchu said, quickly explaining. — It's an Alderaanian moss painting, long thought lost. Princess Leia searched for it last year to extract an Alliance-era cipher…

— I remember that case, — Wedge groaned. — She saved the cipher, but the painting fell to the Imperials.

— And now it's turned up at Ackbar's, — Tycho concluded. — Along with a million Imperial credits in temporary currency, packed in a Mon Calamari delicacy box. Princess Leia's aide, Winter, confirmed it. She's already been questioned as a witness. Ackbar's been moved from house arrest to a high-security prison. Even Mon Mothma has to schedule visits—military investigators won't leave him alone for an hour.

— Smells like a setup, — Wedge grimaced.

— Smells? — Tycho smirked. — It reeks so bad you'd feel it from the other end of the galaxy. But it's enough for Fey'lya—he's pushing for military courts, clearly aiming to stack them with Bothans. If he succeeds… Ackbar's flight's grounded.

— Kriff, — Wedge swore quietly. — If this keeps up, that Bothan'll dismantle everything we bled for!

— Not unlikely, — the Alderaanian agreed. — But what's left for us, Wedge?

— Put on a smile to hide the pain and keep fighting, — Antilles said. — Joke in battle so our psyche doesn't turn us from regular people forced to take up arms into the half-machines of the Empire we're fighting. And not become ruthless enforcers of a Bothan regime. Plus, — he added quieter, — part of me wants Fey'lya to find and crush that Imperial task force. But on the other hand…

— His victory would mark the beginning of the end for the New Republic as we know it, — Tycho agreed, turning his back to the bar and scanning the Rogue Squadron pilots, now split into groups quietly chatting. Wedge sipped his drink, glanced over his shoulder, and shook his head before resuming his interrupted brooding.

The private cantina room on Christophsis, rented for his pilots, was separated from the main hall by a transparisteel wall—mirrored on one side so those inside could observe the hall… Who'd come up with that was another matter. Who'd decided to throw a midweek masquerade party and fill the place with costumed humans and sentients?! The spectacle dazzled like an X-Wing flight without inertial dampeners.

— Hm… — Tycho's voice broke Wedge's reverie. — Check this out…

Antilles glanced over his shoulder. His gaze swept his pilots, then shifted to the main hall… His sharp pilot's eye caught a tall, elderly man in the crowd, his hair cropped so short he seemed bald… The stranger stood in the hall's center, turning his head as if searching for someone.

Wedge's gut clenched. He recognized the man. The realization hit so suddenly and shockingly that bantha-sized chills raced down his spine.

— Doesn't he look familiar? — Tycho mused. — I've seen that face somewhere… Maybe in old Alliance files.

— You're right, — Wedge leapt off his stool, straightening his uniform jacket. — Picture him with white hair and a beard instead of the baldness and stubble, — he shot Tycho a wary look, nodding toward the exit. — He commanded our base on Yavin IV when we blew up the first Death Star.

— I deserted the Empire later, — Tycho joined him, both pilots striding swiftly toward the exit. Their rapid departure drew the other Rogues' attention. — I arrived after you'd evacuated and…

— Not the time for history, Tycho, — Wedge hissed, opening the private room's door and stepping into the main hall, quickening his pace. — That man's been presumed dead for nearly a decade! And Corran saw him when he was captured by Isard!

— Wedge! — Tycho shouted, grabbing his jacket sleeve. — It's a trap!

Antilles furrowed his brows, giving his friend a heavy look. Then he glanced at the short-haired man approaching with a friendly smile.

A chilling void formed within him. Even the approaching Rogue pilots encircling Antilles couldn't warm it.

— No way! I can't believe my eyes!? — hushed whispers rose among the pilots, realizing who'd come within arm's reach. — Is this who Horn went looking for?

— General! — Wedge broke free of Tycho's grip, nearly throwing himself at the elderly man's chest. — You made it out after all?!

But as he pulled back, he sensed something was wrong.

The man's eyes held no hint of recognizing one of the few pilots who'd survived Yavin…

— General? — Wedge repeated, his voice faltering.

— I… — the man stepped back, rubbing his temples vigorously as if struck by a headache. — I remember you… Wedge Antilles, right?!

— Yes, General, — the pilot nodded eagerly. — Are… are you alright?

— I know you… — the old commander said suddenly. — I remember you… Wedge Antilles… But… Who am I? I should know!

The demanding question rang out like a turbolaser blast over his ear.

— Jan Dodonna, — Wedge blurted automatically, staring into the man's confused eyes as he rubbed his temples. — You're General Jan Dodonna, hero of the Alliance to Restore the Republic!

— Ah, — a faint smile touched the amnesiac's lips. — Right… Jan Dodonna. Now I remember, I remember everything…

Wedge felt his racing heart begin to calm. Could they finally have some luck?! Had the Lusankya prisoners they'd failed to find aboard the star superdreadnought after the Thyferra victory escaped?! Corran Horn, who'd vowed to find them, would choke with envy and joy when he returned! Wherever he was right now…

— I have a message for you, Wedge Antilles, — General Dodonna's voice turned flat, like a droid's rather than a living being's.

— From who?! — Wedge tensed.

— Linuri, — the general croaked weakly, his eyes rolling back. His body went limp, blood streaming from his nose, ears, eyes, and mouth. The Alliance hero began to collapse backward but was caught by Tycho standing nearby. Yet the transformation continued before the stunned pilots and restaurant patrons. Even the music stopped…

In that shocked silence, the crunch of the elderly man's bones—twisting unnaturally in the Alderaanian's arms—rang out deafeningly, prompting dozens of humans and sentients to scream in terror.

Civilians bolted from the site of the gruesome death of a man who'd perished moments after regaining his memory.

As a dazed Wedge Antilles checked the pulse of the cooling body of the famed Rebel commander, in the far corner of the main hall—unseen amid the panicking crowd, unrecognized in an elaborate carnival costume, her face hidden behind an elegant mask—a woman with white hair and mismatched eyes finished eating a blood-red pastry adorned with blue fruit.

Smiling at the unfolding chaos, she slipped out of the restaurant among the fleeing masses.

***

Leaning back in my chair, I studied the golden hologram suspended beneath the ceiling. A traditional Imperial design—an isosceles triangle. Far larger than a standard Imperial Star Destroyer. An atypical, elongated, stepless trapezoidal superstructure stretched from the ship's midsection nearly to its stern, unlike most Imperial military designs. A flattened bridge at the rear… And even more uncharacteristic for Imperial aesthetics—two hemispheres protruding from the voluminous underside…

A substantial number—fourteen, to be precise—of engines crowned the massive triangle's hull in a perfectionist's harmony.

— Impressive design, — I said, not tearing my eyes from the hologram of the magnificent ship. I'd seen its file before, but now I could savor it from every angle. — A true work of military art.

— A big problem, — Captain Pellaeon interpreted my thoughts in his gruff tone.

— No more than eliminating Admiral Ackbar, — I noted. — I imagine Ambassador Furgan from Carida will be quite surprised that his mind-chipped Mon Calamari is suddenly out of reach.

— Honestly, Carida's the least of my worries now, sir, — Pellaeon grumbled, casting a sidelong glance at the golden hologram overhead. — But this furry renegade's revanchist policies… I fear he'll weaken the New Republic far more than necessary for a reliable defense against the Emperor's forces. You said that's not to our advantage.

— Counselor Fey'lya gained his power solely thanks to us, — I reminded him. — And we'll be the cause of his equally steep fall from grace. It likely won't end his career, but climbing back up will take him a long time. When he falls, the Bothans' power structure will collapse too. Excessive weakening… — I toyed with the data chip containing the Caamas Document. — Believe me, it's not so dire for our opponents. But next time the Counselor ascends the throne… We'll bury him and the Bothans for good. Current trends won't destroy the New Republic, but they'll certainly lead some sectors to break away, declaring independence. Strategically, it's no harm; ideologically, it serves our interests.

Pellaeon silently observed the splendid triangle.

— If that ship truly leads the New Republic's Fourth Fleet, — he said, — we can forget about Krennel and the Ciutric Hegemony. It alone could handle everything the Prince-Admiral throws at it. Our ships, when we join that fight, will undoubtedly suffer heavily…

But he meant something else—that we'd face irreparable losses in a direct confrontation. Yes, I understood that too.

— Don't be a pessimist, Captain, — I advised. — The Bacta War showed us that even a nineteen-kilometer star superdreadnought can be defeated—not just by a massive fleet or its equal, but by a Star Destroyer, an X-Wing squadron, and a few dozen upgraded freighters… New Republic forces can be inventive in tackling such ships. Eccentric, aggressive, audacious—and their knack for improvisation and finding solutions in seemingly hopeless situations deserves respect. And thorough analysis. Even an enemy has lessons to teach us. All of us. No goal is beyond our reach. This ship is one of them.

— Sir, — Pellaeon looked at me. — It's a multi-kilometer, high-speed star…!

— I've no trouble with perception, Captain, — I cut off my flagship officer's rising panic. I'd had plenty of time to devise a plan for this scenario. — I can clearly see what ship we're up against. A superb Imperial vessel, built in the finest traditions of Imperial shipbuilding minds, with all their narrow-minded views on offensive versus defensive armament ratios…

The Chimaera's commander opened his mouth for another quip but held back. Instead, he merely exhaled, then lifted his eyes to the golden hologram.

For a few seconds, he stood in complete silence. I almost thought I heard the creak of unoiled gears when suddenly…

— Sir, are you saying we'll turn the enemy fleet…

— Precisely, Captain, — I said, knowing he'd grasped my intent on his own. — Phase one of Operation Crimson Dawn is complete, — the Chimaera's commander shot me a look of pure astonishment. Did he really think our efforts since Obroa-skai lacked a codename? Of course not—thankfully, the New Republic unwittingly provided one for our campaign. — We're moving to phase two. Our adversaries are fully under our control and divided. Divide and conquer… That's how we'll win.