Grand Admiral

There is nothing more humiliating for a commander of an Imperial warship than to patrol a territory isolated from the rest of the tightly clustered Imperial Remnants.

As part of a battle group reinforced by an Immobilizer 418 interdictor cruiser, the Relentless and a Tartan-class patrol cruiser were frankly wasting their time. The Chasin star system, under Imperial control, was also defended by a two-kilometer torpedo sphere—a deterrent no sane fleet commander would dare tangle with. Of course, unless they had a fully armed star dreadnought at their disposal, and even then, that multi-kilometer monstrosity would take a serious beating. It was entirely possible that such a confrontation would end in guaranteed mutual destruction, but… anything could happen. The key was understanding who would command each of these military marvels. Before his eyes stood an example of such a clash in the Corellian sector, which ended with the destruction of both the sphere and the super star destroyer when the latter rammed the former.

Unfortunately, in the current conditions—where passenger and cargo traffic into the Chasin system from Imperial and neutral worlds was strictly legal and minimal, and pulling a smuggler out of hyperspace grew harder with each passing day—Commodore Akrey Dobramu was left with little choice but to keep his ship's crew and attached forces occupied with endless training drills. A soldier or sailor must never be allowed to slack off—otherwise, they'd grow lazy and forget everything they'd been taught, as if it were a bad dream. And with a crew of mostly young sailors and officers, his options were limited.

Endless drills, coupled with constant vigilance at the system's borders (where, after a few arrests, other smugglers avoided venturing, even when passing by), left a oppressive impression on Akrey's mind. The longer this exile dragged on, the more irritated he became, realizing the futility of his presence here. Who even needed this Emperor-forsaken system, especially when it had a torpedo sphere and a local garrison, both maintained by the local government—the only armed forces they could afford? Though, just a day ago, the torpedo sphere had left the system. Where it went, why, and by whose order were questions that remained unanswered. The locals managed their own military movements independently, and the young commodore had no formal grounds to demand anything from them beyond a polite smile.

After much reflection, Akrey concluded that Thrawn had sent him to this system for one singular purpose—one that served both a military goal and a personal punishment. The Grand Admiral was staging a demonstration.

To the neutral and Republic systems surrounding Chasin, he was pointedly showing that the Empire still had the strength to at least visibly protect its dwindling territories.

And to Akrey himself—how pointless and pathetic it was to act willfully during a military operation, trying to compensate for his own failure that preceded an attack, "thanks" to which he'd been demoted from a combat unit to a glorified watchman. Had Palpatine still been alive, Thrawn wouldn't have dared treat a subordinate this way…

From the rumors reaching Akrey, the crew seemed to share his sentiments about the situation. It was galling to serve on a warship only to play the role of a customs patrol. Even his formal promotion to task force commander brought him no joy—it wasn't service, it was exile. An excessively harsh one, in Akrey's opinion, and disproportionate to the scale of his misstep. And even that command was nominal! The commander of the Immobilizer didn't answer to him, receiving orders directly from the Chimaera. As for "terrorizing" the Tartan's commander—a young lieutenant—he'd grown tired of it. Especially since the lieutenant displayed remarkable ingenuity and diligence, leaving no formal grounds for complaint.

— Sir, — the duty officer approached him. — A ship has emerged from hyperspace.

— Did the interdictor pull it out? — Dobramu clarified.

— Negative, Commodore, — the duty officer replied. — It exited along a different vector. It's heading toward us. Transmitting Imperial codes. They've requested a meeting with the task force commander.

— Something new, — Akrey smirked. — Is the briefing room for the on-duty squadron free?

A medium cruiser wasn't an Imperial star destroyer—smaller in size and lacking the luxury of deploying an entire squadron on patrol.

— By the time you get there, Commodore, it will be, — the loyal duty officer promised.

And he kept his word—when the door slid open before Akrey, the small compartment, tiny compared to what he'd seen aboard the Imperious, was empty of anyone in an Imperial Pilot Corps uniform.

Instead, there stood a very different figure. Completely alone—though you quickly got used to treating a pair of stormtroopers from the Stormtrooper Corps as part of the furniture.

— Commodore Dobramu? — The man before him looked young, no older than Akrey himself. And he was clad in rather intriguing armor…

— That's me, — the medium cruiser's commander confirmed. — With whom do I have the honor of speaking?

A faint smile played on the man's lips.

— Kam Solusar, — he introduced himself. — Elite of Emperor Palpatine's Dark Side. The Emperor summons you to serve…

***

— So, can we congratulate you, Prince-Admiral? — the Iceheart inquired with a slight smile that sent a chill down the spine.

— It wouldn't hurt, — Krennel replied, settling into the chair across from the former head of Imperial Intelligence, clad in scarlet. — As you can see, I managed it practically without your direct involvement. The Alien supplied me with seven star cruisers. Though, — the Prince-Admiral lamented, — the money paid for them…

— What's the point of billions if you've nowhere to spend them? — Ysanne Isard asked, smoothing her trousers with a casual flick of her wrist. — The defensive armaments, equipment, and other essentials you don't produce yourself came from the Imperial Remnants in exchange for your shipments of TIE-series tech. And the extra profit just kept piling up. Without major expenses.

— Sometimes I'm stunned by the depth of your involvement and knowledge of my internal affairs, — Krennel remarked, clenching the fingers of his artificial hand until the metal creaked.

— Information is never superfluous, — Isard declared. — You've achieved your goal, Prince-Admiral. You've gained more line ships. But Thrawn clearly has more.

— And he intends to keep that advantage, — Delak said, barely containing his fury, marveling at how much animosity this woman's words could ignite. The Prince-Admiral reminded himself once again how dangerous the woman sitting before him was. And how useful. At times. — Did you know he's closed off Tangrene to visitors?

— Of course, — as if there were any doubt. — The Grand Admiral decided to stash away a few secrets.

— Do you know what he's hiding? — Delak asked.

— At least two new first-generation Imperial-class star destroyers, — Isard replied with a smile brimming with self-superiority over her interlocutor.

— Let me guess—the Adjudicator and the Accuser? — Krennel narrowed his eyes.

— You're absolutely right, Prince-Admiral, — Isard said. — And he's also acquired two dozen smaller ships—corvettes and escort frigates.

— That nonhuman kept the most combat-ready ships for himself, — the Prince-Admiral realized. — I'm surprised you didn't know where he plans to strike next.

— Why wouldn't I? — Isard feigned surprise. — Information can't be hidden from me. Not even by Thrawn, with his attempts to build his own Imperial Intelligence and security service.

— So you sent me to deal with him, fully aware that this filthy nonhuman intended to take more for himself than he let on? — Krennel exploded.

— Of course, — the Iceheart confirmed, doing so with an air of surprise that he could be foolish enough to ask such questions.

— Why didn't you say anything? I'd have given him as much money as he wanted to get more starships! — the Prince-Admiral demanded.

— He wouldn't have sold them to you, — Ysanne replied. — What's happening with the Grand Admiral is part of my plan. Let Thrawn fight the New Republic in your stead. You have your own objectives…

— I'd gladly trade back all seven of those Mon Calamari tubs for the destroyers he's letting sit idle, — Krennel declared. — The weapons shipments for those starships won't arrive until the start of next month! Bilbringji, as always, is too arrogant and pompous to meet their deadlines.

— Your existing fleet is strong enough to repel any enemy attack, — Isard reminded him of his own words. — And soon, you'll likely get to test that claim yourself.

— What are you talking about? — Krennel grew wary. For the first time in a while, her hints were concrete rather than vague.

— The New Republic has decided to make an example of you on trumped-up charges, — the Iceheart said. — The Bothans intend to send a fleet to conquer the Ciutric Hegemony.

— And what prompted them to take that step? — Krennel smirked. The idea of facing off against the New Republic's military intrigued him.

— Their new commander-in-chief is seriously vying for the presidency of the young state, — the Iceheart explained. — "Your" attack on the Hast shipyards rattled the shortsighted Bothan so much that he's ready to throw an entire oversector's fleet at you…

— They'll grind me to dust! — Krennel's eyes blazed as he shot up from his seat. — What are you doing?! I can fend off a hundred, maybe two hundred starships, but an oversector fleet has thousands!

— Everything's under control, Prince-Admiral, — at one point, Delak felt she was simply mocking him by constantly invoking his title. — The Bothans love to show off and let others do their dirty work. Or rather, they're professionals at it. For the sake of a flashy promise and a boost to his political ratings, he'll vow to the senators whatever they want to hear—including a pledge to eliminate the threat of an Imperial task force in record time. By the way, you should be proud that all of Thrawn's victories are credited to you in the minds of the Imperials.

— And what's so great about that? — Krennel said, puzzled.

— That his reckless disregard for the resources offered by Orinda and the Imperial Ruling Council, per their unspoken agreement, will work against him. The information blackout that the Chiss and his lackeys employed for their own safety will backfire. When my plan comes to fruition, the Imperial Remnants will follow you as the leader who eliminated their biggest headache. A few surgical strikes at the right time and place will utterly demoralize the New Republic's war machine.

— These half-answers are starting to grate on me. Though… — Krennel crossed his arms. If it's as she says, he could endure it. — Will this be my moment of triumph? As you promised.

— As I promised, — Isard affirmed. — And I see my intentions through to the end…

"Judging by the blaster scar on your head—to your own end," Krennel thought. But aloud, he asked something else:

— You took a very high-ranking prisoner from me, — he reminded her.

— And he played his role, — Ysanne assured him. — The message was delivered to Wedge Antilles personally.

— So they'll head to Linuri? — Krennel clarified.

— Exactly, — Isard confirmed. — Soon, the New Republic fleet will move to that planet to verify the message sent by the late General Dodonna.

— You still haven't explained my part in this plan, — Prince-Admiral Krennel pointed out.

— It's quite simple, my dear Prince-Admiral, — Ysanne Isard replied in an emotionless tone. — When the Rebels, led by Wedge Antilles, arrive on Linuri seeking answers to their many questions, they'll find them.

— Your riddles aren't making things any clearer, — Krennel stated.

— All in due time, — a smile crept onto the Iceheart's lips, unsettling the ruler of the Ciutric Hegemony.

Still, soon his enemies would feel far worse.

***

He'd nearly forgotten what it was like to sink to the bottom of galactic life, to mingle with the unwashed dregs of society to get what he wanted.

And Nar Shaddaa, for some reason, no longer struck him as the most luxurious or appealing place to live and fulfill his desires. The lights of cantinas, illegal weapons shops, black-market ship upgrades, and blatant dens of vice—where pilots were always sought for dangerous but well-paid jobs, where he'd once spent plenty of time—no longer beckoned.

Today, this city—which, like Coruscant, never slept but never hid its rotten core—stirred in him a sense of disgust. Something bordering on disdain and contempt…

— Guess my old pals were right—I've grown out of that life, gotten "cultured," — Han Solo muttered, watching the scene unfold in the cantina's main room. As always, he sat with his back to the wall, never letting anyone get behind him. Despite his seemingly relaxed demeanor, the husband of Princess Leia Organa Solo was intensely focused.

Primarily because Nar Shaddaa wasn't a place where you could let your guard down without worrying about your wallet—or, more often, your life. And now, without Chewie watching his back, it felt even more perilous…

But he had to be here to find answers.

— Captain Solo, — Han shook his head, trying to process how a stranger had appeared directly across from him at the sabbacc table. It was hard to sneak past someone watching the only direction a guest could approach from.

— Don't know who you're talking about, kid, — Solo leaned forward pointedly, grabbing his Corellian whiskey with his left hand and taking a sip. Meanwhile, his right hand rested on the grip of his trusty blaster pistol… And if it came to it, this time he'd shoot first!

— If you want, we can keep playing your little conspiracy games, — the middle-aged man shrugged. Dressed so plainly he could pass for a regular, yet for reasons Han couldn't pinpoint, he sensed a threat emanating from this man—who didn't look a day over thirty-five.

Not danger—threat. And that was a whole different level of his famed Corellian bad vibes…

— Still don't know what you're blabbering about, kid, — Han said with feigned indifference, taking another sip. The blaster grip grew slick with sweat. — But I'm feeling generous today. How about I buy you a drink, and you scram so I can keep enjoying this fine evening…

— Your informant isn't coming, Captain Solo, — the stranger said in a tone that sent a shiver down Han's spine.

— Oh, is that so, — the Corellian smirked. If you're bluffing, go all in and don't stop halfway. — Well, so be it.

— They told me you're a stubborn one, — the irritating pest smiled thinly. — You can disbelieve me and shoot me with that blaster of yours, but I'm here to help you find your wife, your friends—Wookiee Chewbacca and General Calrissian—and take revenge on those who wronged and abducted them.

— Keep talking, — Han gritted his teeth. Looks like while he was waiting here for an info broker, someone found him instead. If only he knew who… — And name your price.

The stranger laughed. Quietly but energetically. Though entirely fake. Han swore to himself not to trust this sentient.

— I'm afraid hiring me is beyond your means, Captain Solo, — he said. — Honestly, the title "General" suits you better. Shame you deserted…

— I see you know quite a bit about me, — Han flashed a strained smile.

— It's the job, — the sentient shrugged. — So, are you in?

— I don't work until I hear the terms for both sides, — Solo laid out his conditions. Sure, they could dangle what he'd come back to this galactic cesspit for, and a couple of years ago, he'd have blindly rushed wherever they pointed. But now… With every year spent beside his wife, Han Solo had grown accustomed to thinking with his head more often and better than before.

You couldn't live long in peace and harmony with a woman like Leia otherwise—in a family with even one highly educated diplomat, every conflict was settled through negotiation.

— Isn't saving your wife, your unborn children, both your friends, and your beloved ship worth trusting me? — the stranger asked, feigning surprise.

— You'd be surprised what my value system looks like, — Han kept testing the man's patience, dulling his alertness. — So, what's it gonna be?

— Simple, — the stranger stopped smiling. — The terms are straightforward. You return to the New Republic, take back command of your fleet, go where I tell you, destroy an Imperial base, and then get the coordinates to the world where Princess Leia, your kids, your friends, and your ship are. If you do it precisely and fast enough, you'll come face-to-face with the one behind it all.

— Let me guess, — Han took a sip of his drink. — And in return, I'll need to haul a star cruiser full of prime spice for you?

— Tempting offer, Captain Solo, — the stranger chuckled. Too suspiciously. — But no. Nothing beyond that.

— Then I don't see your angle, — Solo said. — Yours or your employer's.

— Perceptive, — the stranger praised his observation.

— Logical, — Han countered. — You're trying too hard to blend in here to not realize you're an outsider to the underworld. Which means you're just a messenger. And there are bigger players behind you.

— I won't deny it, — the stranger admitted. — It's a distant acquaintance of yours, Captain. Though… not someone you've met personally, only through others. But my master knows a couple of your friends.

— You realize you've just slightly narrowed down the list of suspects? — the wary Han pointed out.

— I'm not aiming to reveal my master's identity, — the stranger said seriously. — You've heard the offer, Captain Solo. There won't be a better one.

— Oh, really? — Han smirked. — You know, I think I'll pass. I hate working blind.

— You can keep saying you're not ready to drop everything and search for your wife, but we both know the truth plain and simple.

— Suppose so, — Solo conceded. — But your plan's fundamentally impossible—I deserted the New Republic military. No one's calling me back.

— Don't be so absolute, Captain Solo, — the stranger advised. — You've got friends at the top of the New Republic. Contact her, tell her that by helping you, she can quickly restore the status quo in the provisional government and even oust Councilor Fey'lya, who's practically climbed to the top of the political ladder. After you help us take down the real culprit behind the New Republic's woes—not the one the Bothans made up—it'll strengthen your state and curb Bothan dominance. Trust me, once she hears you're the one who can restore her control over the New Republic, Councilor Mon Mothma will find a way out of this mess.

— You sure know a lot about our inner workings, — the Corellian grinned.

— Duty demands it, — the stranger replied. — Agree, Captain Solo. It's not your first time making shady alliances to get the job done.

— Was that a jab at my deal with Admiral Rogriss to catch Warlord Zsinj? — Han asked, flashing his signature crooked grin at the figure across from him.

— Think what you like, Captain, — the stranger stood. — Well, I see you're not ready to cooperate. I'll find someone else…

— I didn't say that, — Han interjected. The stranger gave him an appraising look. The classic underworld "stare-down" had begun. — But first, I want at least the name of whoever's making me this offer. And what Imperial base are we talking about?

— A planet where the Empire has spent decades training its elite saboteurs and assassins, — the man said. — It's called Honoghr.

— Never heard of it, — Han shrugged. The stare-down was heading toward a draw.

— You will, — the stranger promised.

— Maybe, maybe, — the Corellian said doubtfully. — So, what's your name, kid?

— Sedriss, — the man smiled.

— Never heard of you, — Solo twitched a shoulder.

— My answer stays the same, Captain, — the man across from him grinned. — You will…

***

Molo Himron realized he hadn't even felt the last blow. His body had gone numb, as if his nerve endings had decided not to relay the pain to his brain. After days of beatings, he'd been reduced to a slab of well-tenderized meat…

— Start talking, Himron, — the man with a Pilot Corps colonel's insignia advised, grabbing his hair and yanking his head back so Molo's gaze met his. — Or the beating continues.

— I can take this all day, — Himron grinned through bloodied teeth. — You hit like a girl.

The next blow—a knee to the face—broke his nose. Molo distinctly heard the crunch of bone. His front teeth wobbled suspiciously… Pity, they'd been good ones, lasting him from the loss of his baby teeth to today…

A backhanded strike snapped his head to the side, and he noticed the shackles suspending him had worn through his skin and dug into the muscles of his wrists… Oh, how well it had all started… No wonder infiltrating the MandalMotors data archive had felt too easy—his team was ambushed on the way back. Imperials disguised as Mandalorians (as it turned out) killed all his men and took the scout himself prisoner… And brought him here… Somewhere…

At least Malek—the youngest of his agents—had escaped, sent straight from the archive with a data copy via a completely different route.

A fresh punch fractured his lower jaw on the right. The second break on that side…

— We'll end with you bleeding out from internal injuries, Himron, — the Imperial said.

— Fine by me, — Molo rasped, laughing before dissolving into a cough.

— I'm sure that's exactly what you're counting on, — the pilot said. — Hoping your little runt got away and reached Thrawn with the MandalMotors data?

"Provocation," Molo realized.

— You wouldn't believe me if I called you paranoid, would you? — The scout leaned forward and to the side, spitting a thick gob of bloody saliva onto the floor.

— Your kid's already been carved up, Himron, — the Imperial said earnestly. — We've got all the data—the original he had and the copy you were carrying.

"Then why am I here?" the logical thought flashed through his mind. But he knew exactly what was happening. Malek had gotten away. And now these Imperials were trying to figure out what he'd taken and, more importantly, where. Why? That wasn't clear yet. He'd need to endure the beating a bit longer to find out.

— Hey, where'd you go? — Realizing no one had hit him for a few minutes, Molo lifted his head to look where his tormentor had been standing.

And didn't see him.

But he saw something else. Or rather, someone else…

— Still, I never believed this galaxy could get so lucky with your death, — he said, grimacing at the sight of a figure in a red fleet uniform devoid of insignia.

— You've always been remarkably stubborn and distrustful, — with a quiet thud, a human head dropped and rolled toward him… A familiar face, calm despite its youth, belonging to a man who'd held out to the end…

Malek hadn't made it after all.

Even in his state, Molo could tell a real human part from a fake.

— That's your mistake, Himron, — she said. — You never see anything through to the end.

— My only mistake was hoping a kid from Rogue Squadron could handle a man's job, — Molo snarled, baring his teeth. — But this time, I'll make sure you die for good, Ysanne.

— Right after you, your little band of conspirators, and Grand Admiral Thrawn, Molo, — the Iceheart said, crouching before the captive scout and gripping his chin between her thumb and forefinger, locking eyes with him. Her gaze burned with unrestrained fire while chilling him with icy cold. — You just don't get it, Himron. I've been busy with something else, so I couldn't give you and that nonhuman my full attention. But now I'm free, and I'll deal with you seriously…