It is a time of relative peace in the galaxy.

The GALACTIC EMPIRE has emerged from the bloody conflict with the GALACTIC COALITION and OUTER-RIM SOVEREIGNTY relatively unscathed and unquestionably victorious. Thanks in no small part to the plans of Imperial Governor THEREN GEVEL, the war has been ended with the signing of the Pactum Sovereignty treaty, amounting to an unconditional surrender.

Having conquered a large portion of the galaxy, the Empire now turns its gaze inward, as the focus becomes not war, but the establishment of a new order. Theren Gevel’s BASTION CONCLAVE continues to expand in influence within the Empire. GRAND MARSHALL SIMON KAINE continues to manipulate his fellows within the hierarchy of the New Order to exact his mysterious agenda. And the elusive LUPERCUS DARKSWORD continues to expand his mysterious NABOO SITH ORDER.

As the Emperor’s New Order approaches a critical precipice from which it will either forge an eternal order or damn the galaxy to another millennia of chaos, factions and apparitions from the Empire’s past emerge to forever shape its future…

The Past...

Utropollus Major

Venn Macbeth’s warm green eyes took in what they could about the woman. She was in her mid-thirties, certainly no older, though perhaps younger. He’d never had much of an eye for evaluating people; he scarcely sought to evaluate people at all. Though his work as a district attorney on Utropollus had shown him the darker side of many men, his soul remained distinctly unblemished by it all. His work in bringing criminals to justice had brought him and his family wealth and prosperity. He slept soundly at night.

“I didn’t know who to turn to,” the woman said, dabbing at the running makeup around her eyes. “My sister – she said you’d helped her. I know you’re not the police – I know you don’t do this sort of thing – but I can’t trust anyone…”

Macbeth blinked slowly. “Just slow down.” Her name, she’d said, was Elha. “Who’s your sister?”

“Relina – Relina.”

“Oh,” Macbeth said, nodding. Relina Kvel’s fiancé – a prominent businessman in the industrial automation sector – had been murdered by a Utropollan assassin, years before. Macbeth had worked very closely with the young woman to bring the killer to justice. “Look, why don’t you just tell me what’s going on? You said someone is after you. You want something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” Elha replied. “You remember Jaimes’ murder case, don’t you?”

“Your sister’s fiancé? Of course.”

“I had a security officer I know reopen the case. It turns out there were a lot of flaws in the investigation – leads never tracked down, witnesses never properly interrogated. This officer started talking to people, and he’s been finding things.”

Macbeth raised an eyebrow. “What sort of ‘things’?”

“Political ties,” she said in a hushed tone, as if they were even then coming to take her away. “Corporate conspiracies. They only found the killer, not who hired him.”

“Political ties? As in a local politician?”

“As in Tallon M’krah,” Elha replied coolly.

“M’krah?” Macbeth blinked. “Elha, I know M’krah. He’s one of the people I report to, and he’s not the sort to get involved in assassinations. This is a serious accusation you’re leveling, and I don’t think you have anything to back it up.”

“Tallon M’krah was the president and C.E.O. of the Vexan Corporation until he was elected to the senate and resigned. When Jaimes was killed, his Vexan was being threatened with a hostile takeover. They knocked him off to keep Vexan profits safe.”

“That’s insane. He was probably killed over some petty corporate dispute – layoffs or misappropriated funds. This is a conspiracy theory.”

“That’s what it sounds like. But I’m here because ever since this case was reopened I’ve been getting death threats – calls in the middle of the night, notes slipped under my door.” Elha took a deep breath, steadying herself. She was talking at a hurried pace, as if trying to get everything swirling around her mind out at once. “M’krah knows. He has to. It’s the only explanation.”

“It’s not the only explanation,” Macbeth replied gently.

“Look, you helped my sister. All I’m asking is that you look into it.”

Macbeth thought for a moment. Relina had been a sweet girl – always helpful, willing to co-operate even though she was distraught over Jaimes Kvel’s death. Macbeth had almost though he was falling in love with her for a time, but in the end he had eyes only for his wife. When he thought of how close he’d come to cheating, he wasn’t sure he wanted to get involved in the case again. “All right. I have to get going – do you have somewhere to go?”

Elha wiped her eyes again. “No.”

“I’ll call you a speeder and put you up in a hotel,” Macbeth said, standing, taking her arm and walking her gently out of the room. “Go on ahead, I’ll meet you in the lobby,” he said to her, turning to his secretary.

“Leaving?”

“Yeah,” Macbeth said. “I have something here I need you to look into – it’s probably nothing, but I want you to give Vellim Alvis in the U.R.A. a call. Have him look into the Vexan Corporation tax records for three years ago. Get Tallon M’krah’s, too.”


“Hard day at work, honey?”

Macbeth nodded slowly, flopping down onto the couch of his thirtieth-story apartment. He was a thin man, seemingly youthful for his age, with about a day’s stubble on his face. He often burned himself out working on multiple cases, but always made time to spend with his family. “You have no idea.”

Alisha sat down across from him, flicking on the holoprojector. She was a pretty brunette with petite, feminine features. “Tell me.”

“An old case came back up,” he said, almost chuckling. “Call it charity work. I don’t see any way I’ll be getting paid. Which makes me wonder why I’m working on it, bearing in mind the considerable shit I may get in for working on it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Macbeth said. “For one, if I find what I’m looking for – and I won’t – Senator Tallon M’krah will be going to jail for a very long time. The government doesn’t generally like paying me to convict it.”

“Why are you working on it, then?”

Macbeth shrugged. “No reason. Someone came looking for help and I couldn’t turn them away.”

“That generosity is going to get you into trouble one day,” Alisha said, smiling.

Macbeth tossed a pillow at her and laughed.

Utropollus Major – Two Weeks Later

Macbeth held up his hand in greeting to the minute hologram that appeared before him. “Thom.”

“Hey, Venn. How’s life with the oppressive regime?”

“How’s life with big business?”

Both men laughed, Thom harder than Macbeth. They’d roomed together during law school, studied together, took all of the same courses, cheated off of one another’s tests, and dated the same women. But when law school had ended, Macbeth had become a district attorney and Thom Wyat had become a corporate lawyer, and ended up working for Tallon M’krah at Vexan.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Thom asked. “You look burnt out. Too many hours at the office?”

Macbeth ran a hand through his hair. “That’s why I’m calling, actually. Can I trust you with something, Thom? Just between you and me, old friends?”

Thom furrowed his brows. “Of course. What is it?”

“An old witness came in the other day and – well, long story short, I’ve been doing some digging in the Jaimes Kvel case. Looking into the things we missed last time, the connections nobody ever investigated.” As Macbeth continued, Thom turned serious. Perhaps he’d noticed the dark circles under his old friend’s eyes, or the longer-than-usual stubble on his face. “Things aren’t adding up. Or, they are, in a way I really don’t want them to.”

“What’s going on?” Asked Thom again.

“There are records, Thom – tax records turning up that look suspicious. It looks like Tallon M’krah was getting money out of the Vexan Corporation’s pockets up until Jaimes Kvel was murdered. Transfers out of various Vexan accounts around the time he was killed adding up to the amount the assassin got to do it.”

Thom’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying that Tallon had him killed off? Why? Because of the takeover Kvel was planning?”

“You know about it?” Macbeth asked. Perhaps he let too much suspicion leak into his voice, because Thom’s reply was venomous.

“It’s my business to know. It doesn’t mean we had someone killed.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Macbeth said, rubbing his eyes. He hadn’t slept in two days. “You know Tallon M’krah better than I do. Would he be involved in something like this?”

“He might have taken some illegal severance pay, Venn. But he’s not a killer, for fuck sake. You know him, same as I do.”


When Macbeth returned home, the scene was not nearly as pleasant as it had been before. Now it was later; the kids were back from classes, sitting around the holoprojector, watching some new teen holodrama. “Daddy!” They yelled. A boy and a girl; Jonathon and Zhara.

“Hey!” He said tiredly as they rushed to see him, crouching to hug both of them. “Sorry I didn’t get to see you guys much this week. How was school?”

“Good.” They both replied in tandem.

His wife was not nearly so pleased. A silhouette on the fading light of the windows as she approached from down the hall, Macbeth could tell even from how she walked how angry she was. “Go on and watch the Holonet,” Macbeth said, shooing them away. “Let daddy say hello to mommy.”

They ran off, and he stood. “I’m sorry I’m late, Alisha.”

“Late is an hour or two, Venn,” she said with quiet venom. “I had to pick up Jonathon by myself; I had to take Zhara to band practice by myself. Then I had to cook dinner for a man who didn’t come home and pick Zhara back up.”

“You know I’m sorry, honey. It isn’t going to be like this for much longer – this case is really important.”

“More important than your family?” Alisha asked. “It’s been like this for two goddamn weeks. I feel like I’m all alone in this marriage.”

“Alisha,” Macbeth said pleadingly. “I mean it when I say that this is important. I’m doing a lot of good, here.”

“That is always the fucking excuse,” she said coldly, storming away.

Macbeth just looked sullenly at the floor.


“The Attorney General wants you to lay off the fucking case,” Shevil said. “And I do as well. I mean it. We don’t have the time for this – you don’t have the time for this. You have a case list a mile long, waiting for you; pick one and focus on it. Stop fucking around with this philanthropy nonsense.”

“He’s right, Venn,” Torkle added. Both of them worked for the Attorney General’s office. Shevil and Torkle, the inseparable lackeys of the Attorney General, having graduated from D.A. to paper pushers. “This is stupid. You’re flogging a dead horse and you’re getting everyone in trouble for it. The Kvel case is resolved. It’s over. We’re not going to pay you to run around trying to convict Tallon M’krah, of all people.”

Macbeth stared insolently at the two of them. “That’s bullshit.”

“Excuse me?” Shevil replied. “You’re getting off lightly. Think of what would have happened if the shit had hit the fan – if M’krah found out? The whole senate would have been on us.”

“For what?” Macbeth asked. “Pursuing justice? Tracking down a murder case? Sorry, I though that was what we were supposed to fucking do around here.”

“Not when you’re digging up ancient history to carry out some vendetta!” Shevil nearly yelled.

“Don’t be stupid,” Torkle reinforced. “Just forget about it. Let it go. You’re jeopardizing your career.”

“What fucking vendetta do I have?” Macbeth shouted. “I’ve worked with M’krah! This is not a vendetta. This is me, doing the right thing.”

“This is you being irrational.”

“Irrational? I’m the one being irrational?”

“Are you saying that the Attorney General has made a mistake?”

“I’m saying that when you guys hear ‘rationality’, I hear ‘stop looking into a major murder case’. I hear ‘stop seeking the indictment of a major politician’. I hear ‘don’t rock the boat, obey orders and fuck off.’”

“You hear whatever you want. But I want you to stop investigating this. You are not the police. Stick to your job.”

Utropollus Major – Three Days Later

Macbeth stepped into the doorway of his apartment, and immediately knew something was amiss. Picture frames were gone – holograms taken – clothes strewn across the floor. “Alisha?” He called, hurrying into the living room, then up the stairs when he found nothing but broken transparisteel littering the floor. Before he could get to the second floor, he was obstructed by Alisha, bearing a suitcase, dragging her children. Tears were streaming from her eyes. “Alisha!”

“Get the fuck out of my way!” She yelled. “I mean it! The late nights, the time away from home, I could handle!” Alisha’s tiny form squeezed by a bewildered Macbeth. “This is too much!”

“What are you talking about?”

“They shot out the windows, Venn! They fucking threatened our family! I don’t know what the hell you’re involved in, but now you’re endangering me and our children!”

“Alisha! Please!”

“No, Venn! It’s over! This is too much!” She yelled, throwing the door open and forcing the children through.

“Where will you go?”

“I’m going to my mothers! If you know what’s good for you, you just won’t fucking call at all! Don’t drag us into this!”

And the door slammed shut.

As Macbeth wandered back into the living room, he saw what he somehow missed on the first pass; from the holoprojector were twenty-five large, red, glowing words.


“Hello?” Came a sweet little voice. “Mr. Macbeth?”

Macbeth still sat in his apartment a day later, head in his hands, in a chair that faced away from the door. “Hello?” Came the voice again.

“Venn? Are you here?” Came another voice. That of Elha; which would make the first, scarcely remembered voice that of Relina Kvel. Apparently, one of them spotted him; though he had not responded, he was clearly visible from the hallway. “Venn!”

Shattered glass still lay on the floor, and crunched underfoot as the two sisters came into the room and sat down. Macbeth had been footing the hotel charge for almost three weeks and knew that Elha had scarcely left for that time. But if he was surprised to see either of them, he didn’t show it. He didn’t even look up.

“Venn, are you alright?” Elha asked again. “Venn?”

“They shot out the windows. Sent us threats over the Holonet,” Macbeth said, barely moving, staring straight ahead.

“Why are you here by yourself?”

“My wife left. Took the kids. Filing for a divorce.”

Relina nearly burst into tears. “I’m so sorry that we dragged you into this again…”

“What my sister means to say,” Elha said, “is that we would understand if you backed out. You didn’t know what you were getting into.”

“You warned me.”

“You didn’t believe it,” Elha replied.

“I do now.” Macbeth looked at her. His green eyes were dead with despair. “But the one thing I’m not going to do is drop this case. My contacts in the U.R.A. are tracing more tax records that link Venax to the crime. A weapons test I’m having UtroPol run will probably link the blaster back to a friend of Tallon M’krah.”

Elha nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She got up to leave, but Relina didn’t follow. “I’ll be out in a minute,” she said, and her sister assented, leaving.

“Venn,” Relina said, sitting closer to him and taking his hand. “You did so much for me last time. You know you don’t have to do this. You can just go. Drop the case, fix your marriage and be happy.”

Macbeth looked into Relina’s blue eyes. She was the prettier, more feminine of the two sisters; her voice was sweet in a way that was alluring rather than annoying. “This is what my conscience is telling me is right. I have to do it.”


Utropollus was a binary star system; though unlike most, its second sun – a fairly dim and extraordinarily small red star called Utropollus II – orbited around its first, Utropollus I, a bright yellow star in the prime of its life. Four terrestrial planets revolved around I, and seven revolved around II, ranging from the size of a small moon to a planet such as Utropollus Major suitable for human life. II was just cool enough and just distant enough from I to make for a warmly hospitable climate on its worlds.

The effect of this was a bizarre pattern of seasons and sunrises that left all of the Utropollus II worlds in a state of constant daylight at least twice every year, when their orbit brought them between the two stars. Everlight was a period of strange goings-on in ancient Utropollan mythology. For most, it just meant the shutting the blinds to sleep.

The end of Everlight, as it was that fateful day, spelled the beginning of a week-long festival as a brief period of night returned, to lengthen as the year went on, then shorten again. The first nightfall in months signaled the falling of night on Macbeth’s life.

He hopped out of his speeder, two blocks down from his apartment, in a small parking garage. The cool darkness enveloped everything as he clutched the folder of papers and datapads in his hand. Contained within them was the sum total of the evidence against Tallon M’krah; tax records, bank transfer receipts, ballastics reports, testimony. A litany of facts and figures that amounted to one thing; damning evidence that M’krah had ordered the murder of Jaimes Kvel to save the Venax Corporation from a hostile takeover by Kvel.

One block left. Unnatural paranoia sunk into Macbeth’s mind. The threats of violence by the minions of M’krah had been persistent. His impulse was too keep looking over his shoulder was irresistible. It contradicted the brilliant calm of the night, punctured only by the vague sounds of festival, as the celebration of the end of Everlight began.

The bubble of calm was finally not puncture but burst by a scream that rang out in the night. A woman’s voice; a sweet, honey-like tone perverted by agony. It didn’t take a great deal of thought on Macbeth’s behalf to figure out whose it was: Relina. She must have been coming to see him. He knew what must be occurring; he knew the danger. He did not even think.

Macbeth ducked down the alleyway of the scream’s origination, as if in a daze. Events unfolded at a pace that lurched between the frantic and the delayed. All at once he took it in; Relina, violated, howling in pain. Her attacker with the malicious, gleeful grin, half unclothed. Despite his half-awareness, what was occurring clicked in rather quickly.

“Relina!” He screamed, throwing down the folder and lurching forward, throwing her aggressor into the wall. Pounding on him frantically, insanely, Macbeth screamed bloody murder, grabbing a piece of broken wood and slamming it repeatedly into the vile rapist’s head, brutalizing him until he fell to the ground. “Mother fucking bastard! You son of a fucking bitch!”

He turned around, to where Relina lay, bleeding, half-naked, violated, sobbing. Macbeth dropped to his hands and knees, tears pouring forth as he cursed violently. How could anyone do this? He wondered. What sort of monster, he wondered as he took her bloodied hand and held it in what would be the final moments of her life, would do this? It was worse than rape; it was torture, bloody inhuman horror.

These thoughts ran through his head even as the durasteel trashcan struck him in the back of it, dazing him immediately. The horrible man stood over him, cackling as he struggled impotently to get to his feet. Thinking Macbeth finished, the killer once again crouched over the dying Relina, laughing wildly.

But Macbeth got to his feet, through the blood and the pain. He leapt onto the attacker again, slamming him to the ground. “You fucking bastard!” He screamed, grabbing the man’s head, sinking his thumbs into his eyeballs. Macbeth slammed the man’s head into the ground again and again, each smash more violent than the last. He felt the skull give way; watched he man’s head fall to pieces before him, his face giving way and tearing horribly. Even still he slammed the man’s head down, until nothing remained of it but the blood on his hands.

And then he wept, collapsing from the head wound. He knew no time. He heard Relina stop breathing; saw the authorities come, but could do nothing. Even as he watched them pick up the file and throw it into the trash, knowing that they too had been bought by Tallon M’krah, he could do nothing but wait to be carried away into an ambulance speeder.

Nothing.

The Future…



The shuttle disappeared under the shadow of the gargantuan vessel being towed out of space dock.

“Grapplers holding at tension threshold,” came the computerized automation center’s scanning report.

“Threshold max remaining constant,” came the inevitable human observation. “Power output within safety perimeters.”

His companion just whistled at the sight of the lines starting from the tugs leading back to the finally complete vessel. “There she is… finally! The Pride of the Empire. Kaine’s own flagship, Galactus!”

“Definitely a ship worthy of the visitor it is being graced with,” the former said. “Hull is still ionized… scans are being blocked.”

“That’s to be expected. I’ve heard these Reign SD-Class warships have a keel laid of many different ores, one of them specifically charged to deflect ion cannon shots.”

“No wonder we get nothing from our scans.” The other commented returning to his station. “If not for the comm traffic from the ship, we would never know if anyone was aboard her or not.”

The other, a portly man, laughed. “You’d better believe there is someone over there to receive Him. Or it’s..” and he made a gesture across his throat with his thumb.

“Too true. With all the victories the Empire has had and the news bits singing His praises no one will want to piss Him off.” The man opposite the portly fellow who had been staring out at the ship was, himself, rather skinny, though a competent enough officer of about thirty years of age named Hersch. “Did you hear that He may be made Emperor?”

“If by ‘He’ you are referring to our beloved Regent Hyfe, then aye. If you are referring to someone else, I’ll have to report you for treason.” The other began jokingly and then relented, “I heard something.” The portly man of about fifty years of age was named Jaero.

Jaero’s signal board lit up as he accepted the transmission from the flagship of the Empire. “Port Authorities, this is Galactus. We have Him.”

“Copy that, Galactus. Tracking the Grand Marshall’s shuttle enroute from Quarro District.”

There was a slight pause.

“Thanks for the heads up, Port Control.”

Jaero and Hersch grinned at each other. The return of the ship’s master must have the crew in quite a flurry. Kaine’s reputation for preparedness was second to none though the Grand Marshall did have a soft spot for the military men and women that served the Empire. Still, it was a soft spot no one felt encouraged to take advantage of.


“Their technical crews must be busting their humps. I track the Marshall’s shuttle arriving in about 20 minutes. Shuttle is closing outside the planet’s outer atmosphere.”

“Marshall’s punctual..” Hersch commented when a beeping warning light caught his attention. “What the hell?” he said as the grapplers broke free from the Galactus.

“Tugs have released it?” Jaero murmured while throwing a questioning glance at this partner. The Galactus was still several kilometers away from the refueling depot control station.

“Galactus? Is there a problem?” Jaero asked as he clicked open a channel to the flagship. His voice sounded controlled though an inflection of uncertainty crept in.

“Port Control, we are going to execute intermix startup from here.” Came an unemotional voice.

“Galactus, this .. this is highly irregular.” Hersch began, butting into Jaero’s conversation.

“What He wants.. He gets, Port Control.”

Jaero couldn’t argue with that little statement that suddenly changed the whole face of the situation. What would happen if something went wrong from the startup thus hindering the Regent’s victory sail across the Coruscant System in the Empire’s Flagship? Would his wrath be taken out on the crew? Would the Port Control operators that were supposed to prevent such occurances from happening be the victims? What would happen if they had ordered Galactus to stand down thus directly challenging the Regent’s order? All valid questions that ran through the operator’s mind in the few seconds it took for his partner to curse.

“Not a good position to be in..’ Hersch muttered under his breath as if reading Jaero’s mind.

“Port Control?”

Jaero sighed. “Understood, Galactus. Port Control out.”

Hersch turned back to his station and suddenly grinned. “Marshall Kaine’s shuttle has picked up speed.”

“If anyone can handle a situation, it’s him.” Jaero said resolutely and suddenly sat back content to simply watch the Galactus come to life on it’s own power. Typically, the dry docks were not equipped with engine sequencing startup equipment that a standard repair/starbase facilities. It was standard operating protocol to bring either newly enhanced engines or completely rebuilt engines online with the aid of a starbase facility.

The power output of the floating cities called Star Destroyers required delicate balancing. Still, the starships were not without their own resources and so, while a self startup sequence was outside the normal protocols, it was not out of the realm of possibility. The warship could do it.

Another light drew Jaero’s eyes to a far panel. “Power bleeding… from the readings, it looks like a nominal buildup.”

“Damn hull… “ Hersch cursed, the ionizing effects still blocking his scans.

“Galactus is reporting normal system powerup.”

“Kaine, ETA 10 minutes.”

“Damn.. that’s a fine looking ship” Jaero murmured in admiration and began to stand up. “I’m thirsty.. Want anything?”

Hersch was still staring when he shook his head, turning slightly, his eyes still remaining on the flagship. “Not thirsty. How about some food?”

“Food?” Jaero chuckled to himself. “I’ll see what—“

The Control Tower’s lights suddenly turned a blue hue and a piercing red light drew their attention.

“What the-?“



And outside their viewports, set against the crystal beauty of Imperial Center and surrounded by passing support ships and patrolling TIEs..







..the Galactus exploded.






*



+ 10 minutes…


“Comm traffic is jammed!” Hersch shouted over the drum of launching work pods enroute to the shattered remains of Galactus. Not much of the hull had remained, though the pieces were large enough to greatly damage whatever they hit.

“Emergency channel, Military encryption..” Jaero started as he entered the codes drilled into him from constant training.

“Admiral Chandler on a priority..” came someone over the intrastation system. The entire Port Control Facility had been awakened to massive damage control initiatives.

“Accept..” Jaero said, sighing.

The firm voice of authority rang in his ears. “Report.”

“Galactus has been scattered all over the damned planet's orbital sphere.. “ Hersch nearly growled out in frustration sending the coordinates to reroute damaged transports out of the area. It was a monumental task as Imperial Center held the traffic of untold billions.

The Admiral’s voice softened somewhat. “Do we know the cause?”

“At this point no.” Jaero got out automatically. “Right now we are attempting to salvage what we can of damaged vessels. Several TIE fighters and bulk transports were fatally struck in the explosion.”

“The High Command has mobilized the Home Fleet, they will enter your area in less than two minutes..” the Admiral explained taking the situation in hand.

Jaero’s sensor board confirmed the larger warships of the Empire were closing on their location. “Thank you Admiral, their tractor beams will be most useful.”

“Send over your visual and sensor logs as soon as you can.” Chandler ordered in response, his attention seemingly directed elsewhere.

“Sir..” Hersch began slowly.

The Admiral turned his eyes to the Control Officer.

“The.. There was someone aboard…”

“I know.” was all the Admiral said.

“I don’t think..” Hersch tried to clarify.

“I know…” Chandler repeated. “Any location on the Marshall’s shuttle?”

Hersch turned white. “No.. No sir. No one has reported their sensors picking it up.” He felt shame at having forgotten about the Marshall in lieu of the Regent being dead center on a ship that exploded.

Admiral Chandler nodded. “As of this moment, Imperial Center is under Martial Law. All government agencies are suspended until the cause has been identified and the threat.. (if any) dealt with.”

“If any?”

Chandler grimaced slightly. “It could have been an accident.”

Hersch nodded when the proximity beacons detected the first of the Fleet to arrive on the scene.

“You’ll have our logs shortly, Admiral.” Jaero said.

“Comm from the Tyrant.” Hersch said as another sensor board began ‘speaking’ to him.

“Captain..” Jaero began but Hersch overrode him shouting, “GRAVIMETRIC WAVE INCOMING!”

“Wha?” Jaero turned as the Captain of the Tyrant shouted for shields.


Five seconds later the wave hit as systems all over the Control Tower shorted out leaving Hersch and Jaero in a dark room staring out at the debris.



*


+ 2 hours…


“What have we got, Quinn?” Admiral Chandler started without preamble

“Hell of a mess, Sir.” Captain Quinn responded, holding a data pad in his hand. At least that is what the hologram looked like it was doing.

“Preliminary readings of the debris indicate late discharge of a gravity well generator.”

“Damn.” Admiral whispered harshly. “Damn.. damn… damn. We don’t need this.. Not now.”

“Bastion Conclave?”

“Falling to hell, Captain.”

“Figured as much. Our orders placed us on stand-by.”

“It’s going to boil over and boil over soon.”

“Sir!” came a shout drawing the Admiral’s attention. Captain Quinn waited patiently as the older officer was drawn off.

He came back less than a minute later with a grin on his face.

“The Marshall’s shuttle has been located! Rally everything.. sending you the location.”

“We’ll be on site in a few. Quinn out!”



*




+ 8 hours…


“Well, I’ll be damned.” The engineer looking over a detailed scan of two pieces of debris remarked in wonder.

“What?”

“Send for the Admiral. I know what happened.” Was all he said and the Damage Control Teams suddenly were a flurry of self important activity each wanting to remain at hand to hear the latest.

The Admiral walked briskly into the large hanger bay littered with pieces of the Galactus and people milling around, sifting for answers.

“How’s the Marshall, Sir?” the Engineer asked first.

“Stabilized for now. Bacta treatment should last the rest of the night.” Chandler’s eyes narrowed. “When he wakes, he is going to demand answers. What have you got?”

“Well, sir, as you know, scans of the Galactus were nil because of the ionized hull plating. It still needed to time to discharge. What we do know is that the intermix engine startup was ordered and that the rate of damage from deck to deck indicates that the explosion did occur in engineering and not anywhere near armory stores.”

“But how?”

“That’s the tricky part, Sir. I can tell you what happened, but I cannot tell you how. You see these readings in these pieces? They show that the engines overloaded reaching the first critical mass stage of the restart.”

“But the first stage of restart has the most safeguards! Doesn't it? These safeguards are automatically powered when the intermix comes online.” Chandler shot back.

“Yes sir. I know my business.” The Engineer said not unkindly. “They were knocked offline by a short gravimetric wave burst from the gravity well generators.”

“But,” the Admiral frowned, “the gravity well generators cannot be powered until the engine matrix has fully charged and balanced.”

“Aye. They run on two separate systems and are powered differently. I can only tell you what happened, but I cannot tell you how.”

“I can.” Another older engineer said, walking up.

“What have you got?” Chandler and the other engineer nearly barked out at the same time.

“Only the possibility of how the grav generators could come online during an engine startup.” He looked up intently at the Admiral. “However, Sir, it would require this..” And he began to show them on his technical schematic.

The Admiral understood. “To do that would mean it was intentional.”

“Aye, Sir. It would.”

Admiral Chandler’s eyes glanced to a nearby pile of debris noting the blackened visor of a once red Imperial Guard uniform. The Regent had fancied surrounding himself with the entrapments of office that even Palpatine enjoyed.

How could that be done on the flagship especially with a force sensitive like Daemon Hyfe aboard? Why didn’t he suspect the danger? Did he suspect the danger?



All good questions.



“Sir. There’s an incoming communiqué from the Conclave. Eyes only.” A Comm Officer came up whispering into the Admiral’s ear.

“Thank you. Gentlemen, you’ve given me a great deal to think about.” Dismissing the Engineers.

“Give our regards to the Marshall when he gets out.” One said.

“I will.” Chandler said sincerely.

He mulled over the findings of the engineers while he made his way to his quarters. When he was alone, he called up the transmission entering his encryption sequence.

The screen brightened as the communiqué revealed itself.

After several minutes, he sat back into his chair, his eyes staring off into the distance.

“Oh… @#%$..”




*




When mapping events along a historical arc that endures the passage of time, what historians invariably do is find one particular experience and use that as a starting point. The circumstances surrounding the launch of the RSD Galactus could be classified as such.

It was an arc marked by a singular event. From that event emerged a great many points of divergence from the previously known (likely) result derived from probability data.

Divergences such as changes in cultural identity have their beginnings marked by experiences (sometimes tragic) that spread their effects over subsequent generations.

Unfortunately, many of the conclusions reached by historians are the result of their own misguided interpretations drawn from contemporary experiences. That, coupled with that undeniable axiom of history: that history can only be read, recorded, and interpreted by what historian’s ‘see’, do much to pull down the tapestry of truth, woven over by interpretation, theories, and half-ass guesses. The axiom is the one invincible truth that overshadows everything a historian says and does. For all their archeology, for all their artifacts, for all their buried scrolls unearthed, their conclusions can only be drawn by what they see or, more accurately, what others have seen in their ancient lifetime.

In this, one main ingredient is missing. This one singular important piece of information, depending on what that information yields, can either paint a historical picture as black as night or as white a snow.

That singular piece of information?


Motive.


How can historians draw conclusions based on the events that resulted from the Event, if they don’t even know why the event occurred?

Or, again more accurately, how can historians draw conclusions if what they did know from the secular accounts taken from those who were there at the time…. If what they thought they knew…

..was wrong?



How accurate can history be if it was drafted in secret?


How accurate can history be if the only truth derived from the experiences such as the Event is the “what” but not the “why” or “how”?


All in all, history is correct about one thing…..that events in time are linked.


Even if those links are invisible to those living at the time and remain invisible to posterity for all times to come.



Were the circumstances surrounding the launch of the Galactus .. linked to something else?

Though a certain few people may have held pieces of the puzzle, no one certainly knew all.


For there was a dark side of Truth.


A side someone used with the skill of an artist painting a masterpiece.


This dark side?


That Truth was subjective.







To find the original canvas of this masterpiece, one has but to move backwards from this future event, past the present unrest on Utropollus Major and into that haze that was the life of Simon Kaine.

If not all of the strokes were of his own making, then he knew enough to use what was there to create a piece of astonishingly simple appearance and yet deadly depth.



For (at least) this part of the tale had it’s beginnings on Coruscant more than 30 years prior…

Over 30 years prior…


“It’s mine!”

“No! It’s mine!”

Both children tugged with equal amounts of force, neither giving an inch nor caring about anything except that which was their central focus. Suddenly one of them, indistinguishable from the other in everything except attire, hooked his foot around the others ankle then let go of the toy.

The second child toppled back awkwardly and fell to the ground, toy cluttering to the floor behind him. Seconds later it was scooped up by the first and a knowing smirk formed upon his face.

That which is not yours, take.

A few tears were evident on the second child’s features but he quickly stood up, anger evident in his stance.

“I had it first!”

The first continued to smirk, having well learnt the lesson that had been displayed.

“I have it now. And that’s what matters.”

He turned and begun to mess with the toy, realising then that he himself already had something better.

Staring daggers into the others retreating back the second child rushed forward and delivered a strong push that sent the ‘victor’ flat on his face.

“Yeah? Well I’m telling Wesley!”

The name was said with such triumph that it could only have been the ‘checkmate’ of the situation. Tears only now stopping the ‘loser’ ran off, calling for the name that would be his salvation.

Truly amazing how the actions of two children could be so prophetic…


Near future, Xa Fel.


Master and Apprentice stood side by side before the Order as dozens of minor functionaries scurried around them, each on a task considered life or death by their masters. Lupercus’s gaze wandered aimlessly from the acolytes to the Sith, smiling as he mentally corrected himself. His Sith.

He opened his mouth as if to speak then stopped, cocking his head to the side. Something not of his Order approached. Waving his hands in front of him Lupercus dismissed his fellow Sith, just as Captain Ortega entered the massive foyer of the Sith Temple. His mind was a wash of emotions and confusion, so much so that the Hapan could not even attempt to pierce the humans mind to discover his reasons for coming. Instead, unlike usual, he actually had to wait until it was spoken.

Ortega cleared his throat after saluting, speaking almost immediately.

“News sir, from Imperial Centre.”

He paused as if allowing his Master right of reply but a stern glare badgered him into continuing.

“The Galactus has been destroyed sir, reasons unknown..”

The Sith Lord cut the captain off, immediately understanding the import of his statement.

“What about Kaine? What happened to Kaine?”

There was an eagerness in his voice that had dangerous implications for any serving Imperial, but the captain served Lupercus first, the Regent second.

“His shuttle was reportedly en route to the Destroyer when the accident occurred. Last reports have him in critical stages of bacta treatment but doctors are hopeful that…”

Lupercus both cursed and praised his luck.

“Captain, summon my council for meeting over Corellia within the day. We have not a second to spare.

And have my ship readied…”

Turning on his heel Lupercus begun to resummon the Order.

They had much work to do…

Distant Past...



There was just too much work to do.


And not enough slaves to do it.. the wry thought passed through the mind of a man staring down at the commotion below.


The thought held a twinge of regret for that meant his clones would have to compensate and he needed every clone he could command at the moment.

"My Lord?" came a voice of one of many of the man's Admirals.
Ironically, there was no shortage of those..

The Admiral was gesturing outside as if to encompass the people outside. "Why are we tolerating this.. this insubordination?" The man stepped forward and continued to do so until the man at the window raised a slender hand cautioning the Admiral that he had come as close as he would.

The Admiral, through clenched teeth seethed. "Just give me a squadron and I will clear the causeway personally!"

The man's fanatical devotion was a sight to behold to the man at the massive arch window but, inevitably, a boring sight for he'd seen their like.

In abundance.

There was no need for subterfuge. Not anymore as his decades long designs finally had come to fruition.


And he was growing ever stronger...


Yet...

And yet the more power I possess the greater my disappointment in everything I see. It seemed, the greater his perceptions grew, the more undesirable sights he found.. sights he wanted to change.

Sights of such startlement as when he first realized just how many alien figures he and humanity resided among. It was a revelation that had shaken him as these "perceptions' moved him to view the encroachment creeping ever closer to dilluting humanity and it's hold on the future.

Not only humanity's but His as well.


There were too many aliens...


A situation that, as his perceptions grew ever sharper, became far too easy to fix.


At least before these 'rebellion', he mentally scoffed with contempt, stories began to be traded among the commoners.


"The public populous is entirely comprised of fools, Admiral Bek." The man, his aging eyes reflecting an iron-like strength of will, turned to the military man. "Remember that. The rebel mistake of pandering to these masses will be their eventual undoing."


The Emperor of the Galaxy moved away from the archway, immediately forgetting the protestors in the plaza. He knew why they were there and he knew what they wanted.

It was what he had seen in his mind's eye and, like sheep to the slaughter, they were already lining up.


Predictable.


He thought briefly to the noticeable absense of Lord Vader overseeing the final construction of the Death Star. This scab replacement hardly registered as alive when set against the indomitable will of his mechanical Sith Lord.

He felt the lethargic motions of his body and was at once amused by what he found. His first question was to wonder why he felt as he did but upon a more soul searching contemplation, he found the answer obvious.


Just like the appearance of his fanatical follower exhibited, he too felt himself.... bored.


He had reached the pinnacle of his achievements and, in the sunlight of supremacy, he found no more challenges.


Nothing moved him.


The crowds outside had found a brave voice but their sudden feeling of security was misplaced.


They were still thinking like a Republic. That they seek to hamper me with loopholes in law..


Emperor Palpatine let out a slow chuckle.


Fools! I AM the law!


It was a lesson that the population, it seemed, had yet to take to heart.


And so he had acted a few weeks before, when he ordered severe punishments to the families of known rebels. So far, the prisons were being filled at an astonishing rate as the politicians of the Empire began to take advantage of the situation to rid themselves of political enemies and ingratiate themselves into the Emperor's good graces.


They had no idea what was coming. The politicians who tried to enter Palpatine's inner circle.. actually, convincing themselves that there was a circle.., the Emperor was amused..these self satisfied Senators, who had familial connections within the military thought they could manipulate the Emperor while trying to befriend him.


They think their military connections will give them an edge..


He was prepared.

It had taken him a while to locate the right person to prod and set the right circumstances into motion to bring his will about... and the man had bitten.


In all fairness, there was no way the man could not bite down when Palpatine had such a firm grasp of the man's sensibilities.


If they could be called that..


Simply putting the man on the front lines of the New Order policies without being screened by Intelligence could not help but present Palpatine with the effect he wanted.

This Captain of a small cruiser... being held back from commanding one of the new Imperator Class Destroyers, which was a direct challenge to his wife's ambition, was only icing on the cake.

Overlooked promotion after promotion and confronted first hand with the Emperor's New Order Policies, the enslaving of problem races, the elimation of the more useless races, and the like...

.. it was an equation that provided the desired result soon enough.


The Captain was finally placed in one compromising situation too many. One which he could not ignore and he was forced to choose.


And choose he did.


He rebelled.


Oh, he had saved who he intended to save, but in so acting, he fell right into the Emperor's designs.


For it was at that instant of action, when the Captain was rebelling far out in space, that he addressed the Imperial Senate instituting harder measures in dealing with this rebellion, especially on the heals of a certain terrorist act that he himself had orchestrated.


That the severe punishment of imprisonment for those related to rebels was simply not enough to curb the spread of violence. Extreme times called for extreme members as these terrorists fought to undo everything they had worked for, undo everything they had fought for in the Clone Wars.


It was time they felt the teeth of the Empire.


It was time they felt the people's resolve to live in peace and in Order. The death penalty for the traitors was well and good but, unfortunately, the rebels simply acted that much more boldly. It was time for a more harsher measure. Something that would grab the rebel's attention and not let go.


Palpatine remembered the rush he felt, the exhilaration, when giving his next command. All first born children of proven traitors were to receive the death penalty for the sins of their parents.


There was a great outcry (led by Bale Organa) but the Emperor asked, in the face of this, how could the rebellion not die? He had assured them that the Senate held the power to ultimately veto the death penalties at will but it was time they viewed this threat as serious.

This seemed to be the "way out" most of the aliens could live with as they thought they had fitted around Palpatine the bonds of compromise. The law was ratified.


Truly, though, the Emperor knew the law would pass regardless of their wishes. That is what his clones were for. To see his wished carried out.


Everything had proceeded as he had foreseen until he sent his clones to arrest the Captain's wife upon hearing from the Military Command of the "treachery against the Empire" by this naval Captain out in the Mid Rim.

Unfortunately, the stormtroopers had found the home deserted and Palpatine had flown into a rage.

The Captain had acted far quicker that he had expected and for a time, he felt a surge of adrenaline as his plans teetered on the edge of ruin.

At least, until they caught the wife just before entering a transport scheduled to leave the Core.


The Emperor smiled at the turn of events. Almost..


"We should shoot them and be done with it.." the Admiral was still spouting when Palpatine raised another hand silencing the intrusive words in the man's throat.


Another servant, an agreeable man who was refreshingly quiet, entered and spoke with great reverence.

"Master. Senator Iomere has arrived."

The Emperor eyed his servant, "And the prisoners?"

"They have arrived as well."

Palpatine smiled. "Good."



*


"Senator Iomere," the Emperor rasped out as the man bowed in a deference wholly insincere. Palpatine knew that the man
was working hard to undermine the New Order holding some misconception that the Old Republic held some virtuous characteristics worth returning too.


The Emperor remembered nothing but quarrelling aliens over the most inane subjects.


Before the Senator could inquire as to the reason of his visit to the palace, in strode four stormtroopers surrounding a very strikingly beautiful young woman, with a little boy in tow.

The Senator was at once confused as he turned to the woman, "Celeste?"

"Celeste Kaine, wife of an Imperial Navy Captain and, incidentally, a proven traitor." Palpatine merely said, as if looking through the woman.

He could tell she was frightened to her core. She had not expected his soldiers to catch her when they did and seemed to have not gotten very much sleep as they moved her in the dead of night to the palace.

No doubt the new laws have been playing over the holonet .., and he had made sure she had access to those reports (whether she wanted to hear them or not).


When she entered the palace gorunds, she would know what the law entailed.


"I am afraid we have to carry out the sentence the law prescribes." he said in a cool yet soft voice.

"WHAT?" the Senator cried out in surprise, turning sharply. "What are you talking about?" The woman was the Senator's daughter and the boy in tow, the Senator's grandson.


Palpatine's cold eyes turned to the Senator. "We ratified the law last night, Senator Iomere." he smiled, "I am sorry for your personal loss and the Empire will feel your pain, but the law is the law. Your Son-in-Law has turned his back on the Empire and accountability must be administered."

The Emperor looked down at the young one. "The boy must die for the sins of his father."


"Now wait a minute!" Iomere shouted, heedless that the man he was shouting at was the Emperor. "As Senator, I have the authority to appeal this ..!"

Palpatine's eyes smiled. The poor man was rattled beyond his ability to comprehend. "By your statement, I acknowledge your interpretation of the law in that this boy does deserve to die. But your bias negates any vote you desire to make."

"Allow me to contact another Senator.."

"If you feel you can get a decision before my soldier can turn and shoot the boy down, go ahead.."

A heavy silence fell.

"Take me.." the woman said but Palpatine spoke over her soft voice. "Still, your daughter is young." he replied as if granting a large concession, "She will be able to bear more children...Such a tragedy.." and he raised a finger to the nearest trooper.

"TAKE ME!!" the woman again blurted out, louder. "In my son's place."

The Emperor stopped, turned and looked with his calculating eyes into those of Captain Kaine's wife. She had a formidable intelligence and had quickly surmised the only possible compensation to release her son. Her own life.


As if her life were worth anything to me... Palpatine decidedly began to doubt his ability to exorcise this annoying quality of self worth so prevalent in the people he ruled.


He knew she was intelligent. He knew she would quickly reach the conclusion and he knew what she would say. And yet, knowing what she would say (in this instance) did not remove any of the thrill that coarsed through his body as the helplessness of her situation began to crush her resolve.


He saw that the woman's outburst cut deeply into her father but before the Senator could find his voice, Palpatine countered, "I will accept your offer on one condition. Your father must resign his titles, holdings and lay bare his influences and connections to use as I see fit." The malice in him was rich. "In short, my dear, he must become a vocal supporter of the New Order."


And now he stood back as the woman was allowed to speak privately to her father. The experience was proving a delicious one to that of the Emperor. To have a prominent political adversary's only daughter try to convince him to allow her to die to save his only grandson. He knew the boy was her world and that the father would do anything for his daughter. Even this....

To not do so was to condemn her child to death. A death she would never forgive her father for if he could have done anything to prevent it.

Ahh... the entrapments of parenthood. To 'love' a child more than your own soul. his mind chided.

She knelt down to the boy trying to assure him that he would have to be brave for his grandpa. That she would be going away...

Palpatine lost interest in the exchange upon learning that she too had inevitably proven predictable.

After a time, she moved away from her father and faced the Emperor. He was not moved. Her husband was a traitor.

"We agre--"

The blaster shot from one of the clone troopers was immediate causing the boy to cry out for his mother as she fell.

In an irritated fashion he motioned for one of the troopers to put his glove around the boy's mouth to silence him.

"Now, Senator, you come with me for your end of the bargain is now at hand. It is time you people learn just who the master is."

"This... this is not legal.." the man, clearly broken by what he saw, stammered.

"Legal?" Palpatine sneered. "Senator, I am the law! It is time you stopped following dead words and acknowledged living power!"


"What do you intend to do..?"


The Emperor's sneer broadened into a truly wicked smile. "Why, Senator. I intend to wipe the Republic out of the memories of the people. I intend to wipe away the Imperial Senate...forever. As long as you do what I say, your grandson lives. Fail me, and he dies."


The Senator was too numb to speak further.

Palpatine looked at the child crying for it's fallen mother as troopers were removing her body.

The boy's life is immaterial. Throw it in an orphanage. Iomere won't know the difference. He's mine!

The Emperor's thoughts moved quickly through his mind as he dismissed the boy's tear-stained and darkened eyes.


Not even a period in the pages of history you will be, child.


With a broken Senator in his palm, countless possibilities opened their way into his schemes and he felt his adrenaline begin to quicken.


Anticipation drove away boredom for the moment.


"Order Captain Kaine's ship tracked and destroyed." he called to his troopers as he walked away.


The New Order has come to Coruscant... no! Not Coruscant. Imperial Center!


And with a self satisfied smile the man walked back to the window overlooking the masses. The Admiral fell to the ground, his throat crushed.


Your turn soon enough.., he thought to the crowds below.




He never learned the boy's name.

Interlude



Prior to The Empire Strikes Back Campaign








“..but ultimately, of what use is the law?” General Kaine stopped his lecture and looked up at the assorted cadre of students dressed in black, each holding an immaculate appearance, each holding a severe expression.

The General’s expression held nothing but Captain Chandler noted a flicker of interest in his superior’s eyes.


The General’s eyes moved to Chandler and the General walked past the Captain whispering, “Hyfe’s brainwashed, indeed.”


Apparently, there would be more to this visit than a simple satisfying of Grand Admiral Hyfe’s pride.


“Do you not know the function of law?” Kaine asked quietly walking up to the young woman that had interrupted him.


“I know the law’s intended function. But is it actually able to carry out that function on any permanent basis is what I question.”


The woman looked the General in the eye. “And if something cannot stand the test of time, it is inevitably irrelevant. Would not that definition apply to law as well?”


Kaine’s eyebrow rose and the woman continued. “If the laws changed …”


The General smiled, “Change is the one constant in this galaxy. A stationary law cannot always be made to bend to every situation that comes up… which is why law is improved, why laws are progressed. To continue to fulfill it’s designation function, in this case, the preservation of the New Order.”


The woman was not about to let go. “You speak of laws changing… being improved for the sake of continuing to fulfilling a designed function. But what happens if those in power, who design the laws, change them at whim… Does that not break down the progression of protection for the New Order? Would that not hinder other laws from their designated functions?


And so, how would you answer such an action? Especially if coming from one who creates law?”



Captain Chandler stood a little bit straighter. The girl’s words seemed to smack of sedition but Kaine merely looked at the students deep in thought.


“This is where we are told that we are being seditious.” A quiet voice in the back mumbled.


“Quiet, Karrix!” another hissed.


“Full of surprises,” Kaine murmured to himself and then his voice grew louder. “You would think that we have reached an impasse. But this is not the case. You have but reached a transition from one level of your training to another level.”



The woman narrowed her eyes. “We are nearing the end of our lessons. What do you mean when you speak of another level? We were told we would be allowed to .return to our homes when our lessons finished. The season is nearly upon us and we were promised by the Admiral!”



“Season?” the General asked.


“The season of the Pre’Tak ceremony.”


“Which involves..?”


“It is a ceremony of unity. Each person gives their piece of the Sha’Kra to form the whole. It is done annually and never missed by any of our people.” The woman’s voice hardened. “Ever.”



“How long does this ceremony last?”


“A week.”


“And the Grand Admiral won’t let you…” and the General stopped suddenly.

He remembered the Martial Law Hyfe imposed on the people limiting the number of natives that could be seen together (unless in one of the Grand Admiral’s education centers).



“What I was talking about before,” Kaine started, “I mean’t that all you were studying was Law Theory. The questions you ask involve Law Application. It is another level of understanding.


“But does it prove us wrong?” the woman persisted.


And the General walked up to her table and put his gloved knuckles down looking at her with an intensity that startled the student. “Right or wrong are religious notions and do not factor into the achieving of goals or the carrying out of function. Law Theory merely identifies that which would hinder achievement, goal or function. Law Application puts that knowledge to use so that your function continues uninterrupted.”



“It is our goal to be at the ceremony, General.” The woman said in a whisper, the other students suddenly becoming fearful.


Kaine looked at them in amusement. “The stop worrying about informing a person that what is happening to you is right or wrong. It is a useless arguement and will not allow you to reach your goal. Focus only on that which will.”


“Which is?” another asked, a bit timidly.



Simon looked at him and grinned, “Me. Class dismissed.” And everyone rose to leave, talking quietly among themselves.


When Captain Chandler moved over to Kaine, the General whispered angrily to the Captain. “These people are not the idiots that Hyfe describes them to be. There is a reason why his Fleet sits here in orbit.”





*




“Zell? When did you get in-system?” Kaine’s spirits rose when the older Grand Admiral preened at the recognition in Hyfe’s office on the planet. Grand Admiral Hyfe was seated behind a desk looking at document containing ancient Sith lettering.


“New medal the Regent decided to give me for service becoming an Imperial warrior. Conquest of the Unknown Regions..” Zell winked, “My plan and all that..”


Simon turned to Daemon Hyfe, “We do all the work while he gets the glory? We should blow his damned ship out of orbit and maroon him here.”

Hyfe merely grunted in response as he turned off his viewer but Zell was taking it all in stride. “And leave me here on this primitive planet where they will view me as a God? 1 hour and every father will be offering me their virgin daughters..”


“Not likely.” Daemon suddenly spoke up. “They are scheduled for eradication.”


Kaine was going to speak but Zell beat him to the punch. “Then why waste time and personnel with their @#%$ training? Logistics man! One Star Destroyer in orbit and one hour. Your problems are over and we can be back on Bastion.”


“These bloody primitives are worthless.” Hyfe started with some vehemence. “I thought they could prove useful but they do nothing but lie, scheme, and remain stubbornly unpliable. And their devotion to some ancient religion is irritating to say the least. All in all a lost cause and they should be wiped out, if for nothing else than because they were wasting my time!”



“The 256th is on R&R leave here. We could begin rounding them up..” Simon offered but Hyfe shook his head. “No, Kaine. Get your people out of here. I’ll take care of it.”


Simon’s suspicions were only solidifying when older Grand Admiral spoke up, “Let the boy take care of it, Hyfe. We’ve got bigger problems than @#%$ primitives.”


Daemon Hyfe and Simon Kaine looked at him in surprise. “What happened?” Kaine demanded.



“What do you think happened?” Zell muttered. “What always fraggin happens when Exceron goes lenient with the Rogue Empire! @#%$ Fearsons! It’s war all over again!”



“What planet did he attack?”


“Not him. We are the ones that are going to do the attacking.” And Zell threw down a datapad. “The idiots got themselves caught building a Death Star in the Hoth System!”


He turned to Hyfe, “Vice Admiral Drakiss is preparing his Fleet but I need someone there on site to lead. That’s you, Grand Admiral.”


Hyfe nodded, moving off to privately contact his Captain Essien.


“What do you need me to do?” Kaine asked.


“Review the data while you are finishing up here and head back to your anchor point in Muunilist. You’re good at coming up with strategies so come up with one! By the time you’re ready to move from Muunilist we should have left Bastion and nearing the Hoth System.”


Kaine shrugged, “With the distances you’ll be covering, I could vacation here for two weeks, reach Muunilist and still have time to put something into effect before you reach Hoth.”


Zell grinned, “Leave the virgins alone. Tym will be your support once you’re done here. You fleet captains work well together.”



“Good luck, gentlemen.”



Hyfe scoffed, “Luck? Tell that to Fearsons. I only hope he’s on the bloody station before I blow it to hell.”




*



The Grand Admirals were recalled to their ships in short notice and Simon Kaine walked down the empty hall as the Sentinel First Fleet’s personnel began to be recalled as well.


His mind was thinking about two things at once… First, what he could do to prevent Fearson’s rather formidable fleet from preventing the Death Star’s destruction and secondly, why did Grand Admiral Hyfe wish these people dead?”

The Past…

Utropollus Major

Time passed quickly as Venn Macbeth faded in and out of consciousness. A concussion of sorts left him drifting through the sands of time and space until he came to, in hospital scrubs, on a bed in a rather barren room. “Hello?” He said. The room was suitable for three people, but contained only him; the door was shut. “Hello?” He said again, this time beginning to shoot.

When he attempted to move his arms, he found that they were strapped down. When he attempted to sit up, he found that the rest of him was also strapped down. For lack of any explanation or anything else to do, he fought against them, pulling and straining uselessly against an advanced fabric well beyond any human being’s power to tear. “Anyone?”

Before he could say more, a legion of nurses and armed guards stormed into the room. A syringe was shoved into his arm, and before he knew it, he was back into the inky blackness of timeless unconsciousness.


He came to on a transport of some sort, the familiar thrum of repulsorlift engines buzzing away underneath the dark durasteel walls of the claustrophobic speeder. Chained back once again, still in drab hospital scrubs, Macbeth put his head back and attempting to collect his thoughts. It didn’t come easy; the memories in his head were fragmented, shattered by a blow he scarcely remembered. Vaguely he recalled the chain of events that had led him there, chained together by the irrepressible whim of fate, dragging him along as if on a leash. The visit of Elha to his office; the investigation into M’krah’s shady financial dealings; the warnings of Shevil and Torkle; the betrayal of Alisha.

Slowly the pieces of the puzzle swam together in his mind, coalescing to form a picture that led him irrevocably to that dank transport, but one that still lacked a vital piece. Why was he there? He understood what had drawn the wrath of M’krah’s various cronies, what had driven the infamous Shevil and Torkle to issue their warning, what had forced his wife out of their home. These were events connected by the obvious; by the prodding of Macbeth’s conscience. He had never considered whether or not to help Elha, or to continue when the aforementioned duo had arrived in his office demanding his desistence.

Nor had it ever occurred to him not to help Relina. The voice in the back of his head, the one which told him he would not sleep tomorrow or the next night were he to watch and do nothing, was forever speaking, a mile a minute. And so he had done all of those things, all of those things which were right. But now he found himself in a transport, restrained and treated like a criminal. Perhaps he was a killer – but had that not been only rightful retribution for the horrible crimes visited upon Relina? How now did he find himself held for doing justice?

The transport, after a time, ground to a slow halt, settling to the ground with a clank. The doors were thrown open, revealing the new night. “Venn Macbeth, come with us,” were the only words spoken with a menacing authority by one of the two UtroPol officers, authority which prompted Macbeth to stand quickly and exit out the rear of the speeder. He found himself in a place he had come to know with some intimacy as a district attorney; the receiving parking flat of the prisoner transport of the Plato District Jail.

Led into the drab reception hall of the jail, the front desk occupied by a tired-looking UtroPol officer. “Venn Macbeth, prisoner transfer from the Plato General Hospital, now fit for custody,” announced one of his two transporters. “To be held on charges of assault and homicide.”

The announcement hit Macbeth like a freight train, leaving him stunned and in disbelief as the man at the reception desk asked him some sort of question. The implications were obvious. Conspiracy theories flowed through his mind like a raging river, blasting all other thoughts aside.

“I asked you whether you would like to see your lawyer now,” the man asked impatiently. Numbly, Macbeth nodded his head and answered in the affirmative. As he was led away, he slowly emerged from his daze.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” he croaked. “I didn’t murder anyone.”

“Right,” one of his two escorts muttered, distinctly disinterested. “Just walk, and keep your mouth shut.”

Through a twisting maze of hallways, Macbeth found himself in a room separated in the middle by a pane of transparisteel. Plunked down into the chair, he was informed he had some indeterminate time limit that he didn’t even bother to listen to. He hadn’t thought to ask who his lawyer was, but now that he saw he wished he had; before him in a very modern blue suit sat Shevil, gravely staring back at him. Through the tinny commlink he heard the lawyer greet him.

They stared at each other for a long time, neither sure of what to say, the dynamic of their relationship drastically altered. Finally, Macbeth was the one who broke the silence. “Why am I here?”

Shevil blinked. “You don’t know?”

Macbeth shrugged. “I know what I did. I know that people save lives aren’t usually herded around like dangerous criminals.”

Shevil shook his head sadly, sighing deeply several times, muttering “oh my,” under his breath. “Then I assume that you didn’t rape her?”

“Rape her?” Macbeth nearly spat. “I killed the man who was raping her, with my own two hands.”

“I’m fully aware you killed him.” Shevil bit his lip. “You’re absolutely certain?”

“You can fucking ask her yourself!”

“They didn’t tell you?” He asked. “I thought you knew. You were there…”

“Knew what?”

Shevil glossed over the question, surveying his client with pitying eyes. “Do you know who that man you killed was, Venn?”

“I don’t care who he was!”

“You should,” Shevil replied. “You’re being held for a double murder; Relina Kvel is dead, Macbeth. She died in that alleyway, alongside the man you say raped her. That man was Shard M’krah, the son of Tallon, and heir to the M’krah family fortune. And you’re being held for both of their murders, and the Kvel girl’s rape.”

Macbeth sat; stunned yet again as the hole he had dug for himself grew deeper still. He thought back to his time in the alley; he remembered Relina’s breathing stopping. “How can that be? I saved her. This doesn’t make any sense. Hasn’t UtroPol even looked at the crime scene? Do you know what he did to her? It shouldn’t be very hard to figure out what happened. You’re accusing the knight in shining armor of killing the damsel.”

“I’m not accusing anyone, Macbeth. I’m your lawyer, and we’re on the same side. But it’s going to be very hard for me to represent you if you won’t be entirely truthful with me. The police found your prints all over that crime scene, all over her. They found the… genetic evidence, as well. This case is open and shut unless you can give me something.”

“They tampered with the crime scene. M’krah has bought UtroPol; he’s had a hand in their operation for years, it wouldn’t be hard. He’s buying my conviction.”

“That’s a stretch. Relina Kvel and Shard M’krah have even been romantically connected. You dropped the case against him, remember? Why would he do this?”

“That’s bullshit. Why would Relina be interested in the son of her husband’s killer?”

“But you dropped the case, didn’t you?”

Macbeth hesitated. “No, I didn’t.”

Shevil closed his eyes, opening them to reveal a new iciness. “I told you to drop it.”

“And you thought I would?”

Shevil shook his head. “If what you’re saying is right, you’ve brought this on yourself. And I don’t even know how to begin going about proving it.”

“What in the fuck are you talking about? Because I wanted justice done to M’krah, I deserve this? Relina deserved this?”

Shevil shrugged.

“Are you going to let some juvenile grudge dictate how you defend me?”

The guards returned through the durasteel door. “Your time is up.”


One Week Later

Macbeth didn’t feel any better in his own clothes on the day of the arraignment. That fateful day had come abruptly, the space between flying by in a haze of insomnia and arguments with Shevil, none of which served to comfort him. And so as he came before the judge feeling distinctly unprepared, the feeling of helplessness that threatened to consume him was greater than ever.

“Venn Stoudius Macbeth, you are brought before the High Court of Utropollus by the sovereign Government of Her People as a criminal against them and against the state. You are hereby charged with one count of aggravated sexual assault with intent to maim, one count of brutal sadism, and two counts of murder in the first degree. How do you plead against these charges?”

Shevil looked pleadingly at his client. It had been the elder lawyer’s contention that only by pleading guilty could he escape spending the rest of his life in a maximum security prison; that, with an airtight case against him, his only hope of ever seeing the light of day again was to confess to what he had not done.

The prosecution attorneys hired by the M’krah families were highly paid and professional, he was told, aided by an infinite well of financial support and an army of legal aides. A legal army, whose only goal was the complete destruction of one Venn Macbeth. All for crimes he had not committed; all for acts of selflessness and justice.

And though the answer did not come easily, it was not uncertain when it came. “Not guilty, your honor.”

Present Day


Strategy Room - Office of the Grand Marshall



"Have you ever heard of roleplaying, Ibren?" Kaine asked as he reclined against a leather chair, an onyx-surfaced table before him, datapads scattered over it in front of him.

The Admiral, uniform unbuttoned sitting in another chair, his feet propped up over a nearby stool, stole a glance from the Research Department's new TIE fighter schematics toward the Marshall. The thought for a moment, the word sounding familiar but not knowing what it meant.

"Roleplaying?"


"Think of it as a game where people create a fantasy characters that they portray. Creating senarios where they live out this fantasy character's life.."

"While wasting real time doing nothing?" Chandler interrupted, clearly not that interested.

"Something like that," Kaine murmured. "I've been studying this report from the INS Directorate showing that a number of citizens, younger ones mostly, take part in this activity."

"Why is INS interested?" Chandler shot back, still intent on his schematics.

"Knowing what the people talk about, how they relax, how they communicate gives us a handle on the Empire's pulse. It can be very helpful when selecting pieces for the propaganda machine."

Chandler put down his pad, "So you are saying that they found a number of young ones pretending to be someone they're not?"

"Exactly!" Kaine sat up a little, sorting through some of the pads, "In every society there are going to be a number of.. well. useless people."

"Useless?"

"People that are not ambitious, people afraid to tackle life on their own, people who are afraid to voice their concerns and so they do so over anonymity of the Holonet."

"Not so anonymous eh?" Ibren grinned slightly.

Simon chuckled, "The point is, I always wondered how we would handle these people that have no ambition or who's abilities are so lacking that they turn to the realm of fantasy to play out their dreams of power."

"Sedition?" Ibren asked slightly confused.

"No..no.. Think of it like this: A fat, ugly girl wants to be pretty. Wants to be noticed. Or she's not fat or ugly. Say she's thin as a bone, awkward around people, can't fit in. Or a boy that can't get a date, has no social skills," Kaine made a grand gesture, "but oh so wants to find that thing called love. They create a character that is everything they are not and live through the character.

In the fantasy realm, they are beautiful. They have handsome husbands or wives. Or they are rich.." Kaine tossed a pad over to the Admiral who caught it. He scanned it and grinned, "Or married to us."

Then he frowned.

"Or enslaving the Jedi? Destroying Naboo... Marrying Gash Jiren... Making love to Gash Jiren...as a man... as a gungan.... Being Moff Zell... Having Organa Solo as your love slave..?" The Admiral looked up. "I see a common theme."

Simon's grin stretched further. "The Empire's young are a bunch of sex crazed perverts."

"At least the Empire's young that aren't making themselves useful to the New Order."

"There are some alien members... pretending to be human.. or pretending to enslave humans.."

Ibren looked up sharply. "That is.."

"It's being handled," Kaine interrupted knowing what his friend would say. "There are others here who like to spit and spew about politics but their arena is a realm of fantasy and so they are quacks. Malcontents too scared to openly express their views.."

"Some would content that the Holonet is a public forum.."

"Who gives a damn as long as they are in hiding? At least that Viryn Quell had the guts to appear publicly."

Ibren laughed, "Of course! Those enemies you can respect as you kill them."

"No.. let them spout. Their illusion of freedom of speach provides it's own boundaries."


Chandler placed the pad down and picked up the schematics once more. "What brought this interest up?"

Simon shrugged, "Just something I ran into as I was sorting through Intelligence's data dump regarding the Republic and the Jedi. There were quite a bit of personal files and records in the databanks we secured on Imperial Center and on Corellia."

"Wouldn't most of it be outdated.."

"Oh naturally, but what I am more interested in is what makes our enemy tick. You know, I never realized just how many Jedi actually end up going over to the darkside."

"Lupercus' group?"

"Not necessarily, but then again, as long as they are against the Jedi I don't really care. But these Jedi Masters are an enigma."

Kaine stretched back in his chair. "I just don't understand why they bother.."

"You found Jedi Master's personal records?"

"It's not so much their records, but accounts from other people, people who worked around them.. .nameless masses."

Kaine reached out and grabbed another pad, "There was quite a bit of reaction within the general public regarding the reinstatement of the Sith Gash Jiren to that of Jedi Master. I mean, here was a man who slaughtered people of the Republic, basically said he was ..sorry.. went through some scam of a trial conducted only by Jedi, mind you, who ended up exonerating him. Since the Republic was run by Jedi, the people had no choice..."

"Good thing for them, Jiren was legimate."

Kaine grinned, "But was he? who knows... he may have been scamming the Jedi from the start and if so, he would have pulled the greatest stunt in history. Already, he fractured the Jedi Order with his own Rogue Order."

"Is this why we've not leveled Ossus?"

"No... Ossus we will eventually win over by default. Let their leader live and die of old age. In a hundred years, the people will welcome the Empire, especially if they are one of the few miniature kingdoms left."

"Ahh.. the Hapan Strategy?"

"If Lupercus fails in his bid to take the Hapan throne, it may come to that."

Kaine went back to the pad, "In any event, these Jedi Masters work so tirelessly for their government and for their Order but they treat the people with indifference. So much so that no one gives a damn about them. These Masters walk around in their ancient robes," he grinned, "and frequent bars... You have no idea how many Jedi Masters frequent bars."

"I had no idea that there were that many Jedi Masters?"

Simon waved a hand, "Oh, their all Jedi Masters. There are enough Skywalkers in the galaxy to believe that Vader bedded 10 wenches on every planet from here to the Rim."


"Hmm.... He'd catch up to Zell.."


"The personalities I am getting from these is that most of the Jedi are timid, unsure of themselves and generally have a low self esteem."

"That's good for us."

"It's very good. It means that the Jedi Order will die within the next five years either by the cliche of falling to the darkside or they will have not given anything to the collective community or to a tangible cause for such a long time that people will stop caring about what the Jedi believe in or stand for."


"I believe a Sith was married to a Jedi Master.." Ibren added.

"Really? I hadn't known that."

"I forget which one, but apparently they had a child together.."

"Must be hell on visitation rights." Kaine said rather amused.


Then he grew serious. "It seems though that with these Holonet games there is enough diversion for these undesirables to remain, untapped to the Regent's schemes. I thought redirecting Wrath to our lower levels would have persuaded him to scheme with a better class of people."

"You placed too many intelligent people in an around him. The entrapments that served Palpatine do not serve Hyfe as well as he'd like." Chandler commented.

"You should have seen him when the New Order was redesigned with Protectorates. He was livid."

"You cut into his power-base. Otherwise it would have just been a repeat of Palpatine .. or of Brel. You strike hard enough at a centralized powerbase and the whole damn thing will fall.."


Kaine nodded, "He's been.. strange. But for the past two years he's been getting worse. Classified missions to Xa Fel, even without Darksword's notice until he'd left. More and more.."

"Like Palpatine?"

Kaine's face was serious. "In more ways than one. I have a feeling that we don't have the luxury of our time tables anymore."

"The New Order is not that far away. Just a little while longer.."

"We've never been so close, Ibren. In the next weeks, I believe that the Empire will either have it's future secured or the whole damn thing will come crashing down."

"If that happens.."

"The Empire will die."

"Marshall, the pieces are not all in play.."


Simon Kaine, Grand Marshall of the Empire hesitated in thought as his eyes glanced at the scattered pads.

If anything, they show me that we've no more outside enemies. No. The only uncertain variable is the Interior.


"Forward my classified orders to Viscount Del Forza. It's time for him to return to Jutraal."

"Opening move to us.." Ibren whispered.


A chime sounded and Kaine's hand went over a hidden consol under the table releasing the security field surrounding the doors, the room itself under constant security shields from any type of intelligence device.

The door released and a Spartan walked in. "Emergency transmission from the Regent."

"Relay it to my personal comm." And Kaine went over to a far wall to read it.

He quickly turned to the soldier. "Inform the Palace I am coming over."

"What happened?"

Kaine's eyes held neither mirth nor warmth. "It seems someone else made the opening move. There has been an assassination attempt on Moff Zell."

His eyes held those of his Admiral and friend. "Prepare. We move whether ready or not."

We didn't come all this way only to have the Empire fall apart now! Not when the machinery is nearly in place!

Imperial City, Coruscant


The sun was setting on Imperial City. Commerical towers and residential rises blocked one another for the dominant position against the day's last assault. Shadow embraced all one meter at a time as dusk took its place over Life. Hues of orange and yellow painted the artificial surface of the most populous planet in the Empire-Proper.


" I hate this time of day," muttered a tall, stolid fellow as he glanced from a high-paned window out onto the world of receding light.


" Sir?" asked an aide seated, eet up, before the desk of His Grace, the Viscount Ierin del Forza.


The standing gentleman nodded dismissively and gestured towards the desk with his slender cigarette holder. " Have you seen my orders?"


" I have indeed. What a mission!"


The Viscount let loose a short bark of a laugh. " What a mission! You have no idea. I knew I would be returning somehow, but I didn't imagine it to be this soon."


" Are you anxious to get back, sir?"


Del Forza drew in a sharp breath. " I am. The Emperor Chadd has messed things up nicely and I get to to tidy things. Mikael - summon Admiral Desaria."


" Desaria, sir?"


" That is what my orders say. Go."


The aide snapped to attention, clicked his heels, and bolted towards the door. Before he could leave, however, he heard his superior's reproach: " and keep your feet off of my desk!"

...Prior to Endgame...



A shudder went down her body that was not caused by the rather cool air circulators. She pulled the plush comforter (an apt name for the cloth) closer to her face trying to bury her growing fear.


"Jenice... You will be fine.." the voice, soft and yet with a faint twinge of confidence.


Her mind was furious at her emotional reaction.


Is this how you want to be seen?! it chided and yet, even so, she could not bring herself to even think about an answer for what he had asked.


In itself, it was nothing to be worried about.


Simply traverse the spacelanes to meet one of the most powerful conglomerate executive directors in the galaxy!


Easy, Jenice! A cake-walk!



And yet, her fear was not of the unknown, though (truth be told) she hated unknown variables. That is what helped her to survive for so long.


Because she knew where she was, she knew what to expect and because she knew that it would end.


She had been rescued early on in the New Order's bid for control over Muunillist. Grand Admiral Hyfe and a certain Colonel Simon Kaine had defeated the machinations of her father and of his corporation rendering his power impotent. They did this by making him give up his source of pride, the symbol of his collected achievements, the Towers.


And they gave them to me..


For, after it was all said and done, she was still her father's daughter. Even her time spent as a plaything for those powerful men (both friendly and rivals to her father's company) had proved to further her education.

For men in power needed an audience.


Men in power loved to talk.


She heard the steady exhale of his breathing...

Except you..


But to face another powerful man, even one who would perhaps not ultimately hurt her, would still change her in ways even she could not understand.


Until it happened...


She felt his presence behind her as he moved quietly.


Would you?... would we?



Her mind drifted to her task.


Meet with CEO of Vinda Corporation. Get Vinda to devalue the Corporate Sector Authority's credit. Such a move would allow the Empire to step in and inflate a floundering Cryonics Industries economy giving the Empire access to much needed galactic industries.

Tenloss wouldn't know what hit him until it was too late.

And having control of the galactic industries would go a long way for the Galactic Empire.

Foundation, he had called it.


A lot would ride on her actions. Her fists tighted, clenching the comforter.

She had never been outside of Muunillist's orbit. And now she was to meet with Seth Vinda?


And quite honestly, nevermind how he reacted...how would I react?


Would she gouge the man's eyes out if the man had a playful flirt with her?

Her lips curved in an unexpected smile. Now wouldn't that set his plans back?


As he breathed in quiet rhythm, she exhaled sharply. This experience would changer her. Perhaps change them.. but for the better or worse was yet to be seen.


"I'll go.." she whispered quiety.


Not because the plans of the Empire depended on her... not because she would be venturing off into a realm her father played in, not because she was promised anything..

but, quite simply, because...


..because he asked.



She felt a hand on her shoulder and she slowly turned to look at him.


She half expected, half feared to see the signs of a victory won in his eyes, but she saw none.


Instead, his gaze, still intense, seemed to see things about her that even she could not fathom.


He knew how this was hurting her...


He knew how hard this would be...


..and there was something else there.


As she felt a hand brush away a strand of hair, she saw that spark.



That faint hint of ..


Pride.


She buried her head in his chest and whispered again..


"I'll go.."

Imperial High Command, Coruscant

Present Day...



The sun had finally disappeared below the sheen of metal covering the Imperial City skyline. Lights popped on one at a time until the entireity of the land was filled with a synthetic aura to replace the gone natural luminescence. Spires seemingly pushed out from the surface of the metropolitan planet were wrapped in flashing beacons warning any traveler of their dominating presence.


The Viscount Ierin del Forza, Grand Inquisitor of the Empire, stared out from his 119th storey window into the traffic beyond Command's perimeter. It moved on, unending, as if some divine force propelled the masses onward through the winding steel valleys. War, blockade, disaster - they had all failed in interrupting the flow of commercial traffic and persons through the clouds. He almost marvelled at the collective will to move. Were some one to tell him the congested skylanes imbued purpose, he were likely to believe him.


Such were the thoughts of a fanatic too possessed by intelligence. Until, however, some one dared disturb the sultan of internal security throughout the Empire.


" Your Grace," bowed an aide after entering the room. " Admiral Desaria is arrived for you."


Del Forza needed not turn to see the olive-clad officer standing ahead of the Inquisitoriate attache - the reflection proved ample enough viewer for the Viscount's eyes. " Leave us."


The aide clicked and bowed low, turning and speeding from the chamber with great yet precise speed. More than being intimidated in the presence of a superior, the aide had the presence of an officer whose legs were set on quick-march.


" You sent for me, Your Grace?"


Aristocratically, the arrived flag officer ranked above a mere viscount; in the great scheme of the Imperial hierarchy, the Grand Inquisitor outranked a Fleet Admiral.


" Indeed. Do you remember our last war with the Jutraalian Empire?"


Fleet Admiral Desaria had the urge to shut his eyes but resisted with all energy he could summon. He feared images of the questioned times would flash into being - he could not avert it. As he looked blanky forward into the night sky, his mind's eye replayed the battles, the conquests, the glory - the deaths, the lost ships, the fallen friends.


" I do" he replied what seemed like an eternity later. " I commanded a division at Hoth."


" As did I," came an almost inaudible comment - del Forza had commanded the forces covering the withdrawal of Jutraalian forces when their Death Star had met its end. Louder: " we are both going to return to our roots, then."


For all the hate Desaria had for the Inquisitoriate he could not help but feel a small amount of pity for the Inquisitor. He had endured a grueling career under Fearsons, surmounting the odds to become one of the leaders of his empire. Then he had been dragged with Fearsons into the ash heap of history as the latter destroyed his own creation. Only his entrance into the Empire had saved any pride he had left though a cloud had followed him since.


" ...we are going to Jutraalia, you and I."


" We are?" asked the aristocratic officer, promoted full Fleet Admiral only a matter of weeks before.


" Yes, Admiral. You are your command have been detailed to aide me in my mission."


Desaria had an uncrontollable pang of dread in his stomach. Joint operations with Intelligence or the Inquisitoriate never went well.


" With all due respect, Inquisitor, the Fleet is not a transport service."


Grand Inquisitor Ierin del Forza chorttled slightly, his shoulders bouncing in his dim silhouette as he did. " Too true. But if things do not go as planned, your Destroyers will be needed in their native role."


" I would like these orders in writing." As a Fleet Admiral, Desaria felt much more secure challanging the Inquisitor, but was not repared to object without the support of fact.


" Of course. Grand Marschall Kaine's office drafted them for you in case you wanted them."


Desaria was taken aback - Kaine had known him for a long time, and the Fleet Admiral's disdain for all services non-combatant was legendary. However, if he said to go, then there he would go.


" Just what will we be transporting?"


Del Forza turned to face the Baron. " Four brigades of the Crimson Guard."


The demilitarization of the Inquisitoriate had been overseen but Desaria himself, eliminating them as a rival to the Army. They had managed to keep four brigades which they armed with disruptors - the most painful weapons in the galaxy - and made into fanatical devotees. They were an arrogant lot and to a man willing to follow any order without question. They were not the brightest bunch but by far they were the most intimdating.


The Fleet Admiral shuddered as he departed the room. Only the rain drowned out his nurmuring.







(have to finish)

The past…

Utropollus Major

This time, Macbeth said nothing to the guards as he was dragged down the dingy hallways towards the visitation area. Compliantly he allowed himself to be led into the small room with the concrete walls divided by the transparisteel, and to be plunked down in front of the one woman he was certain would be on his side; Elha. A cigarra in hand and a sullen look on her face, the woman whose sister he was on trial for raping sat with relative calm before him. The dark circles under her eyes matched his own, but her eyes blazed with a kind of bitter defiance, whereas his seemed dead or dying. “Elha,” he said tentatively.

“What do you want?” She asked. “Make it short. They said you wanted to talk to me, so talk.”

Macbeth blinked slowly. “Well, I wanted to apologize, first of all.”

“For what? For what you did to my sister?”

Macbeth sat staring wide eyed at her, the sting of betrayal again biting at the lining of his stomach. The words resonating inside his head, he choked out, “You know I didn’t do it.”

“Oh, you may not have personally been there to kill her. But this is your fault. I came to you for help, and what you got me was my sister raped and murdered. I don’t know what sort of reckless, self-indulgent quest you were on, but you fucked up. And now, my sister is dead. Whether you killed her is totally semantic.”

“What are you talking about?” Macbeth asked. “I helped you. I was trying to help you. I did the best I could.” He was babbling, unable to come to terms with this final betrayal. “I did the right thing.”

“And now Relina is dead. Is that what you wanted? You drew her in – with your words, those little smiles you were always giving her. I know she visited you without me. That’s where she was going that night, probably with more files for that bloody, bloody case.”

“You mean the case you opened?”

“And now she’s dead,” Elha repeated.

“But you know I didn’t do it,” Macbeth said desperately, pleadingly. “Look, you must have heard, the trial isn’t going well. M’krah has thirty lawyers working for him, churning out more evidence every day. Shevil has nothing – he doesn’t even want to have anything. Your testimony could save me – insert some doubt at least. I’m on the chopping block, Elha.”

“Then maybe you should ask yourself why.”

Macbeth looked sadly at his feet. “Because I helped you?”

“Because you got my sister killed, Macbeth. If I testify, then what happens? M’krah comes after me again, M’krah’s lawyers make sure he never gets charged, nothing goes away and I live with a black mark on my head until I wind up dead in an alley or poor as dirt. Maybe you deserve to hang for what you’ve done.”

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You’re afraid?”

Elha stood up, and glanced behind her. Immediately, two guards burst through the doors on Macbeth’s side, grabbing him and beginning to, once again, haul him away. “You’re making a fucking mistake – a fucking mistake! What the fuck are you doing – ?”


Thom Wyat stood there making pretty speeches, surrounded by a crowd of reporters, all of them hungrily scrounging for a story. Like locusts they assaulted, in tandem, a hive mind of vicious greed pandering to the lowest intellectual denominator. The Venn Macbeth story had become something of a small tabloid fascination, destined mostly for quick slots on the evening holonews and repetitive coverage on talk shows.

Macbeth eyed him from down the hall, where he sat silently on a court bench, conveniently unrecognized. Thom had been brought onto the prosecution’s team as outside counsel shortly after the prosecution phase of the trial had ended and the defense had begun. His obvious bias – as an employee of the Vexan Corporation – had been overlooked, apparently.

Macbeth, robbed of his own defense and knowing that no other lawyer would represent him in such a public, losing trial, had calmly sat there and watched his life be ripped to pieces. DNA evidence, written and verbal testimony, all scarcely refuted by a reluctant Shevil. And so now Thom Wyat preached from the top of his pedestal to a legion of cameras. “Today, we will see justice done. I am confident that the integrity in the hearts of the fine men and women on that jury will see to it; I am confident they will not let such a dangerous man as Venn Macbeth slip through their fingers.”

Questions were shouted and replied to with inconsequential answers. Macbeth just looked on with casual anguish, knowing as always this eventuality was out of his hands. There was nothing to be done, nothing at all. When the reporters, bade by the courthouse guards, dispersed, Macbeth approached his old friend. Why, he would never know; perhaps he wanted to feel the knife in his back driven deeper. Thom looked at him like he was dirt. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” Macbeth answered truthfully. “Why are you doing this? Why are you part of this?”

Thom didn’t respond.

“You lied to me. You knew all along.”

Thom still didn’t respond for a while. Then, as a lovely young family – a handsome father, attractive wife and young daughter – strode through the sliding transparisteel doors of the Plato District Courthouse, he looked back at the man who had once been his friend. “See that?”

“Yes.”

“Children are great. I have two of my own now, you know. How are the wife and kids, anyway? They been to see you at the jail?””

Macbeth gritted his teeth.

“No? Probably best for them, keeping their distance. Shit[/i] seems to circle you like a storm, Venn. Wouldn’t want them to get caught up in it.” Thom looked into Macbeth’s eyes and smiled good naturedly. “Would you?”


The court reporter pounded away at her holoterminal, and the judge slammed his gavel repeatedly as the din died down and the jury returned from their hour-long recess. Only an hour. Macbeth knew what that meant. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

“We have, your honor,” juror number one said. “On the charge of aggravated sexual assault with intent to maim against Relina Kvel, we find the defendant guilty.” Macbeth stopped listening. He didn’t need to hear this to know what lay in store. Only one word penetrated his consciousness, over and over; guilty.

Guilty.

Guilty.

Guilty.

“As explained to you earlier, you were also to reach a verdict on the punishment to be allotted Mr. Macbeth based on the guidelines of the Utropollan Criminal Code,” the judge continued. “Taking into account the severity of these crimes and the duration of the sentence, served consecutively, have you come to a conclusion on this matter?”

“We have, your honor. We, the jury, find that in accordance with section…”

And once again, powerless to stop it, Macbeth slipped into a trance. He knew, too, what this would be. The response was expected, engrained into his mind over the weeks preceding. It was only to be expected for a man who had only tried to do the right thing.

Death.

Endgame Finale




The man in the black and gray uniform of the 256th watched from the orbit of his aging warship at the vision before him. The once symbol of strength and order in the galaxy, Coruscant lay open and bare before him…ready to submit.

He watched as the embers of the Republic were stamped
out, the hourly reports coming in over the temporary military holonet system.


He had done the impossible and retaken Imperial Center.


I've retaken home..


He knew he had been born on Coruscant and had remained
there until he was about five years old...but the images he held of that time were few and sometimes indistinguishible.

It was here that his mother sacrificed her life so that he might live.

It was here that his father betrayed the secure world of a young Simon Kaine.

He did not care that his father had betrayed the Empire.. no.. his father had done something far worse.


He betrayed my mother...


He betrayed me..



After so many years of fighting..first for the simple (or not so simple) matter of survival, then for acceptance, and later for domination..


...After decades of conflict the young boy had grown into a man who had learned the art keeping his own counsel.


And yet, looking at the his old home, nearly forgotten, once buried emotions threatened to surface.



The lost answer to his life-long question that he never really expected to find seemed suddenly relevant.


And yet, even as the question rose within his mind, he knew that he would never.. could never... have the answer.



Why?



What motivation started my journey?




"General? Incoming transmission. Eyes only." came a voice behind him.


"From?"


"Grand Admiral Hyfe and Grand Admiral Zell."


Simon felt the old emotions within him subside as new ones surfaced.


They three had been through quite a bit, having fought and bled together.



The Empire will not be the same after this..




He knew that while his operation signaled the 'endgame' for the Republic, the Empire was also coming to a crossroads that would either ultimately destroy it or cause it to transcend the deadly cycle that seemed to have gripped it.



It apparently seemed to be a cycle that only he saw. He and those of the 256th.

Perhaps it was because they hadn't come from under the umbrella of the usual political wars between the Imperial Senate on Bastion (under Darth Exceron) and the Military High Command.


He and his had fought for survival after the death of Palpatine, etching their way from the world of Sotel, where the grave of his father was located. They faced and overcame obstacle after obstacle as the Empire lost planet after planet to the Rebel Alliance's New Republic.


And then hope seemed to die when Ysanne Isard lost Imperial Center.


What she was thinking in letting a virus loose on the capital was lost to Kaine but then, he was not one to mull and complain over the actions already played out.


Rather, he adjusted strategy with actions currently in play to bring about the desired result.


Just as I am doing now...



For while the conquest of Coruscant and the deathblow to the Republic went a long way in the war to reaffirm Imperial supremacy, his goal went farther...


much farther..


"Tell them, I'll be a minute." Simon ordered sending his officer on his way.



His gaze remained fixed on the captured Coruscant though what he was seeing was something out of the past...



The flaw in the Empire...


"But what happens if those in power, who design the laws, change them at whim… Does that not break down the progression of protection for the New Order?"



Why had Hyfe wanted such people destroyed?


It was as if they posed some... personal threat to him.



It was a question that shouted from the far reaches of the General's mind.


All he had were suspicions and even then, he knew of no course of action that would have been appropriate to take. At least, he knew of no course at present.


All he knew was that the cycle was going to turn full circle.


Emotion clouded his mind as he felt a twinge of regret.

Dammit! We have fought and bled together!
We've triumphed over impossible odds!


He set those troubling thoughts aside for the moment as he turned and headed towards the Galactus' strategy room. Engaging the comm system, revealed were the irritated look of Grand Admiral Hyfe and a rather triumphant look of Grand Admiral Zell.


"My friends," Kaine paused to delivery a shadow of a smile, "I bring you greetings from Coruscant."


Hyfe's eyes flashed at the news... hungrily.


Zell simply laughed at his screen and took a drink of something probably strong from a glass resting out of holographic range.


Then Zell asked a question...

the question..


"So, Kaine. You hold 3/4's of the Imperial Fleet on station there. You have blocked all hyperlanes into the Core.

What are you going to do?"


As if to emphasize Zell's question, Hyfe asked, "What about the Regent?"


Kaine looked at Hyfe, "Our suspicions were correct, Grand Admiral. Exceron was found located within an Imperial Intelligence holding facility. His condition was not good, barely alive in fact. He is in no condition to remember his own name let alone continue in his office."


Zell whistled at that. Surprisingly, Hyfe's notorious scowl did not appear. Rather, he had another look. One Kaine could not quite put his finger on.


"So the grand old witch did it? Tried to run the Empire through Imp Intel. How did we ever run this operation by her?"


"By using her own resources, infiltrating her current operations and changing their perimeters to effect the results we wanted. She spent the entire time playing catch up." Simon answered looking intently on both of them. "As for
what I am going to do? I have ordered Admiral Desaria to start offensive measures against the remains of the Republic. By the end of the day, the Corellian System will be under blockade and will remain so until they surrender."


Zell's smile turned into a smirk, as if Kaine had not answered the Grand Admiral's inquiry which, in fact, he hadn't.


"I mean't, Kaine, the entire galaxy will know that we have captured Coruscant very soon.. A major military operation right under the noses of the Jutraalian Empire and the Galactic Defense Intiative."


"Supreme Commander Isstal." Hyfe muttered with disdain.


Kaine smiled for it was Hyfe that coordinated attacks with the Jutraalian Empire against GDI.. effectively keeping both foreign powers busy while Endgame went down.


It also kept the Imperial High Command (such as it was) busy as well.


"With Coruscant under our control, I expect the Imperial Leadership to move to the Core." Kaine answered drawing Daemon up short and Zell's eyes narrowed.


Kaine could only imagine what orders Hyfe was relaying to the Ebony Vigilance, the Empire's ESD of Hyfe's own Sentinel Fleet's First Division.


Kaine stopped whatever movements the Grand Admiral may have been engaged in with his next words, directed to him.


"I would appreciate knowing when Regent Hyfe will be coming with the rest of the leadership?"


Daemon Hyfe did indeed stop his activity and Zell's expression remained neutral.


Hyfe stared at the General for a long moment before answering. "What prevents you from declaring yourself Regent and taking power?"


Hyfe was, if nothing, direct.


"My Lord," Kaine started, inclining his head slightly, "I've a fleet to run and a galaxy to tame. I cannot effectively do that from the Palace."


That word caught Hyfe's attention.


Palace..


Yes, he had definitely caught Hyfe off guard and instantly regretted that he had. What orders was Hyfe drafting for his fleet before I mentioned this?


And, with that action, options began to form in the General's mind. Options he would not have thought of otherwise. That the Grand Admiral had already had his mind set on making Kaine an enemy.



But none of that showed.


"Lupercus?" Hyfe asked, his eyes watching shrewdly.


"The Sith have not reported back from Naboo as yet. But early reports suggest that their operation has gone perfectly. We've not found any Jedi resistance on Coruscant at all, Lord."


Daemon Hyfe seemed to relax. "I will be on Coruscant by the end of the week. Bastion will be retired as the capital."


"The men.. the 'citizens' will be pleased to hear that Lord." and Kaine had him.


It was sickening to watch.


Hyfe added magnanimously, "Rest assured General, you may have any position in the Empire your heart desires.."


Kaine inclined his head again, "You honor me, Lord."


"Expect First Sentinel at week's end, Hyfe out."


Hyfe's transmission went dark and Zell remained watching the General through an amused expression.


"There are reasons for your actions, boy" he finally let out and Simon stiffened in an affronted expression that seemed not to fool the older Grand Admiral.


Azrael Zell waited.


"Evidently, in light of this recent operation, Hyfe shares my same concern over the disposition of the Naboo Sith Order. There is nothing in place to ..counter.. a coup should Lupercus decides to act."


"You mean should Lupercus Darksword lose hold of his own ambitions?" and Zell laughed. "Do not double talk me, Kaine. I am NOT one of your dupes. Lupercus will not enact a coup because he is doing what he enjoys right now..and that is killing Jedi. Hyfe will be in power and safely cocooned by the Imperial High Command for the Sith to be of any threat to him."


Then Zell leaned forward, "And by you submitting to him as Regent, you remove suspicion from yourself, especially in light of this entire Engame Operation, and set Hyfe's mind to the monumental task of leading the Empire. So..."


Kaine shrugged, "So everyone is in their perfect, respective places to do the most good for the Empire."


Zell barked out another harsh laugh. "Until, General.. Until..." and he left the implications to the imagination and unspoken.


He wagged a finger at Kaine before signing off, "You have truly become a dangerous one. Make damned sure you know what you are doing."


And with that, his hologram faded out.


And Kaine stood there for a minute.


Until...


He truly becomes consumed... As Palpatine was.


He finished Zell's thought and perceived for the first time that the aging Grand Admiral had seen it too.


"Perhaps it won't come to that." He whispered. "Perhaps He is stronger than we all realize."


And yet even his words seemed hollow.


The next year will either vindicate or damn Him.


Hell, it may damn us all..


I am not the only one dangerous, Zell...



Kaine's thoughts drifted back to a student's question of
a few years ago as options formed and dissolved in his mind at the very true observation..


“..but ultimately, of what use is the law?”


Kaine's eyes hardened.



If my suspicions are correct, then the force is growing strong in Him.


"..and I'll give you one guess how that will affect Him." he murmured to himself.

Mechis III, Relquite Tower

Captain Warth lay on the floor of his cell with a sad resignation in his stature. He'd been put through a living hell now, as was visible on several areas of badly bruised flesh. The beatings had become almost a daily habit. The black uniformed ISB agents would enter and start slowly, before going into more painful activities. It had been like this ever since they had rescued him from the remains of Trachta's former command ship, Barbarossa II. After a few weeks in medical bay, he found himself in a dark cell and guarded by droids and black suited ISB men. He knew he was still on Mechis III or at least somewhere within the Mechis Cluster because that was where the vicious cybernetic Commodore was king. He ruled his worlds with a iron fist while furthering his own ambitions and those of the Bureau which he had spent so much time rebuilding. Now though, the door slid open and Warth listened as only a single person entered. The door slid shut and Warth looked up slightly to see polished black jackboots. His eyes then traveled farther up to the black ISB uniform and then to the pale skin, metal speaker grill, and glowing red photoceptors of Commodore Trachta. Warth just began to sob, knowing that the end had finally come.

"You think me cruel," Trachta said very calmly as he looked down at the man who'd been broken from the constant tortures.

"You think perhaps that I am nothing but a heartless machine."

Trachta actually let out a laugh after saying that. His vocabulator made it into something cold and metallic. Warth just looked up at the cyborg who had been his superior officer.

What have I done to deserve such cruelty?

"Even now, you must think I'm a droid masquerading as a human," Tractha said as he lowered himself down on his knees and looked into Warth's face with those soulless photoceptors.

Yes, Warth thought coldly. He would have answered Trachta verbally, but the last beating had broken his jaw.

"The point of the matter is, you failed. You're worse than Admiral Ozzel ever was. As such, I've punished you worse the Ozzel recieved. He was merely choked to death. You. I've broken you. Spirit. Mind. Body. All broken. However, I want you to know that I do not do this for pleasure."

Trachta slowly reached for his holstered blaster pistol and removed the flap that held the weapon in place. He kept his hand on it but continued to stare at Warth.

"I'm doing this because what you cost not only my protectorate, but also the Bureau. The loss of a Command Destroyer is unforgivable in how long it took me to get it built in the first place," Trachta said icily.

"However, I am not without mercy. Your suffering is over. I release you," Tractha said as he stood up and drew his blaster.

Warth just looked up into the barrel of the blaster and then saw a flash before embracing sweet oblivion and an end to his suffering. Trachta stood over the dead Captain's corpse and looked down at it. Some might say he looked upon it sadly, though it was impossible to tell with his emotionless features. With his final duty done to Warth, Tractha exited and left it to the cleaning droids.

Five Days Later, Imperial Center

Trachta sat boredly in the conference room in which sat the directors of the Commission for the Preservation of the New Order. At the head of the table was a regal looking old man with a large white mustache that matched his off-white uniform. He almost looked like a Grand Admiral minus different rank insignia. While everyone here was still officially part of the Imperial Military, some of them looked like they didn't belong. Several women sat at the table and only one of them looked like she had ever seen any combat. As he thought about, Trachta wondered how out of place he looked amongest the other. All of them wore either the Navy grey or Army olive green. Trachta, as always, remained in his black ISB uniform. He metally chuckled at that realization as he continued to listen the man in white, Director Molave.

"... and so we must push up our efforts to draw more adolescents to the Empire. Manpower is the backbone of this government and we need all the loyal new recruits we can get. Director Yutha, please report."

One of the women who looked to be more of a civilian than any sort of military officer coughed and then entered a datacard into the table, causing everyone's view screen in front of them to display statistics.

"Our ad campaigns across Imperial as well as neutral worlds is going well enough. Recently, we've seen an increase in adolescents joining any one of our many Imperial Youth Bureau. They're all also still very maleable mentally. Most of them easily accept our indoctrination programs, though the few troublemakers we've had have been reported to the Imperial Security Bureau," Director Yutha said as he nodded in Trachta's direction.

"Very good, very good. What do you have to report Director Grare?" Molave asked calmly as he turned towards the other woman who also looked like a civilian.

"Morale has been high lately, minus the few terrorist incidents. Most members of the Imperial Military still believe highly in the New Order and its cause. Those whose loyalty seems to be wavering have also been reported to the Imperial Security Bureau."

Tractha mentally chuckled at that. He, as well as the ISB, was practially second-in-command in COMPNOR. The Imperial Security Bureau dealt with all security matters and its ever growing ranks of black suited agents where pushing it back up in power almost equal to Imperial Intelligence. Trachta was sure that agitated the hell out of Ysanne Isard, which just pleased him even more. He hated that woman. She was a cold hearted, power-hungry @#%$ and everyone knew it. She also liked having the ear of anyone more powerful than herself so that she could get influence over them. If she wasn't so high up, Trachta would have gladly arrested and executed her. The Empire didn't need people like her in High Command position. However, that also turned Trachta's attention to Director Molave. He was just as corrupt, but in a more general sense. He took credit for everything that one of COMPNOR's bureaus or agencies did. That irked Trachta the most because COMPNOR wouldn't have the power base it currently did without him. The Imperial Security bureau was the eyes and ears within the Empire, ferreting out the treacherous and unfaithful. Corruption was going down in the Empire because most high up Imperial officials feared that one of those close to them might be a ISB agent just waiting for them to slip up so that they could arrest them...

"Director Trachta, what does the Imperial Security Bureau have to report?" Director Molave asked, snapping Trachta out of his track of thought.

"As you all know, our training programs on Talus and Tralus have gone exceedingly well. The agents from those worlds are currently some of the best among those newly trained. We've been putting efforts into fighting the corruption of the terrorist organiztion known as the Galactic Liberation Front, who have so kindly been terrorizing the Empire along with several other governments and organiztions. While I'm sure Imperial Intelligence is doing their best to hunt them down, we must also worry about them internally. They could have agents anywhere, thus I'm having all ISB agents going through loyalty test also to gurantee none of them get any wrong ideas about the Empire."

"Fine, Director Oth?" Director Molave said somewhat dismissively as he turned to the woman who had the looks of having served in the military.

Two Hours Later

Trachta stood within his office in the Imperial Security Bureau Headquarters on Imperial Center. He looked down at the cityscape, which stretched as far as his photoceptors could see. The meeting had gone along well, minus Director Molave's apparnet comtempt for Trachta's reports.

"Where would the rotten old bastard be without me," Trachta said in icy tones.

"Director of Waste Management?" offered Captain Rhom, Trachta's recently aquired second-in-command.

Trachta chuckled at that comment, mainly because it was true. COMPNOR had seen better days when Palpatine was still alive, but it had all gotten shot to hell when the old man went. Since then, COMPNOR had been a mere speck of its former self. Trachta had changed that though. With his resurrection of the Imperial Security Bureau, COMPNOR became powerful again and High Command started pumping funding into it. COMPNOR had been reborn and the High Command had sat a bureaucrat at the top to run it. Molave had originally been the director of the Empire's waste disposal agencies but had been quickly snatched up to keep COMPNOR running smoothly as it grew larger. As the ISB grows, so does COMPNOR since its is the only true military force that COMPNOR has behind it besides any COMPNOR officers that hold military positions. Now though,

"I believe its time that Director Molave retired," Trachta said very calmly as he continued to watch the cityscape.

"Sir?"

"COMPNOR needs someone who is a corrupt, bureaucratic fool. That's what Molave is, thus, he must go. Whether he goes peacefully or not depends on what measures are taken to remove him," Trachta said as he brought his gloved hand up and closed it into a fist.

"That old man has had his fun, taking credit from me as well as the other Directors for our hard work. Its obvious that the Imperial Security Bureau needs to be in charge of COMPNOR," Trachta said as he now turned towards the young Captain Rhom.

Trachta sized up the young Captain who was practially his apprentice. Rhom was a young age, even for a Captain and had originally been in the Empire's stormtrooper training program, as was evident from his somewhat muscular build as well as the way he held himself. Trachta had chosen him out of a number of highly skilled stormtrooper trainees who obviously would have become high rankers within the Empire's military forces. Trachta needed someone like that to serve as his second-in-command as well as his eventual replacement as the Director of the ISB. For now though, he also chose him because Rhom's loyalty was unwaverings, to both the Empire and the ISB.

"In the days to come, Rhom, I will require something difficult for you to do to assure that all will proceed as planned. Can I count on you?" Trachta asked.

"Of course, sir; you can count on me," Rhom answered back.

"Good," Trachta said as he turned back towards the window and looked out again. His twisted mind began to scheme the downfall of Bryan Molave and the ascension of the ISB as well as himself to the command of COMPNOR.

We must all be willing to commit certain necessary evils to ensure the survival of the Galactic Empire and its New Order

Twenty-one Days After the Battle of Hoth


" You're mad, Fearsons."


One would never have dared to even think such words when the Jutraalian Empire was in its heyday. The Emperor in his glory had the Force as his ally, its tendrils dripping into every aspect of life. Under him the watchful eyes of the Inquisitoriate, concealed in every shadow, remained vigilant in their tight control over life and limb.


It was thus a daemonic twist of fate that such a phrase would be uttered by none other than the wielder of that sword of internal security. The Viscount Ierin del Forza, Jutraalian Grand Inquisitor, stood before his Emperor and did the unthinkable - he challanged the ability of his monarch.


" I will pretend I never heard that in repayment for your service," came the deep-thundering reply from a figure with the glowing red eyes of a legend past.


Summoning what the courage only fanatical patriotism could instill, the Grand Inquisitor moved forward through the Great Hall towards his seated Emperor.


" Do not pretend - ignorance is not bliss! Pretend nothing! This is why I am here!"


The words themselves made little sense in and of themselves. Worse still, their intended recipient could ill comprehend to what they alluded. So he sat, fuming, as the one man whose loyalty he considered absolute accosted him.


" The walls are crumbling - behind them a force we cannot challange. Victory after victory will make no difference - the sacrifice will be in vain!"


" What force - " asked the Emperor, his voice low and ominous.


The Grand Inquisitor cut him off. " The Empire! I have pleaded with you to stop them, but you sit idly by. When I demand war, you wish peace. Now that we need peace, you demand war. Such cannot be the way of things."


" This is treason, del Forza."


" No, Chadd, it is patriotism. We cannot go on without a stronger policy, opinion of the galaxy be damned. You appointed me Grand Inquisitor because I was loyal. Make no mistake, I am loyal to Jutraalia."


The Viscount Ierin del Forza, having long since replaced the Royal Guards with Inquisitoriate infantrymen, stormed from the Great Hall.

Present....


Grand Marshall Simon Kaine walked past the two Royal Guards without so much as a thought. His Spartans were not far behind though they were not allowed to pass into the Regent's inner chambers.


In the room he found the Regent speaking in hushed tones to an irritated Grand Moff Zell.


"You're not dead?" Kaine asked walking up to the two, the bluntness of his question causing Zell to scowl and Hyfe to smile grimly.

"You have no idea how close that little bantha turd came to spoiling my dinner date!" shot back Zell.


Kaine raised an eyebrow at the gumption of the Grand Moff to still go through with his dinner plans. She must have been something. At least, I hope she was something.


"I've been trying to get him to accept the protection of the Royal Guards but he's proving ... obstinate." Hyfe remarked moving away waiting to see if Kaine could talk 'sense' into the older man.


"That's not the point, Hyfe!" shot back Zell. "An attempt at me.. ME!.. might mean that YOU are a target as well!" Hyfe snorted at the very idea. Zell caught it and changed tactics, "Besides, the way your Guards stand out, I might as well paint a target on my back!"


"Who was the assassin?" Kaine asked pulling a seat closer before Hyfe could put words to his expressions.


Zell looked up. "Would you believe a maintainence engineer?"


"You're kidding?" It seemed ridiculous. "In the Imperial District? How could they get past security? It's second to none."

Zell shrugged, "Well, the moment the bastard discharged his weapon, the internal security grids got him. He was shot up with so many chain blasters there wasn't much left of his body. It's not like the bloody things didn't work."


Simon was confused. "So he missed?"


"Not exactly." Hyfe answered for him, clearing his irritation being brought up again.

"Well, you see.." Zell started, "..as I stated, I was on my way to a dinner date when I saw Colonel Jessem. Remembering that I needed to get directions to her quarters, I naturally stopped her to ask for them."


Kaine let out a faint smile.

"The assassin was tracking his movements and had already shot when the esteemed Grand Moff halts his progress to talk with the woman... the shot hits her instead." Hyfe snaps his fingers, "killed instantly."


"So then the assassin did not know the Grand Moff personally.." Kaine concluded.


When the others turned to him, he elaborated, "the assassin didn't take into account a woman on Zell's path. Did not take into account his lechery." Kaine looked at Zell, "I am assuming she was pretty."


Zell's eyes lit up. "You should have seen her breasts.. as big as Carcasian Melons."


Hyfe moved away with disgust as Kaine chuckled.


"Damn waste.." Zell returned a little disappointed.


"We are keeping this attempt quiet. Witnesses have been sectioned away and I have Imperial Intelligence looking into it." the Regent said.

"Nothing like having your case being investigated by an organization run by a woman who wants us all dead." Zell grumbled.


"Say what you want about the witch but Isard's people are good at their jobs. And, they will answer to me!" Hyfe shot back.


"And my dead body will be eternally grateful.." the Moff quipped back.


"First, we need to find a place secure for you Zell." Kaine started.


"He can remain at the Palace.."


"I beg your pardon, Lord, but no." Kaine interrupted. "If someone or some organization is after the New Order's leadership then having two targets together is too great a temptation. And if they are only gunning for Zell, then why put the Regent in unnecessary danger?"


"Nothing can get into the Palace without us knowing."


"We thought that about the District. Now I am not so sure."


"We do seem to be dealing with some very talented people.." Hyfe concluded. "I shall push the investigators hard."


"I agree.." Simon said, silently not envying anyone with the task of investigating this. .. or the assassin had help from the inside.


"There hasn't been a blatant attempt at an assassination of Imperial Leadership since the days of Palpatine." Kaine murmured.

The Past…

Clevinger Detention Facility

Prison time was slow time. You had an eternity of time with nothing but your thoughts to keep you company. At the end of the day, each man went through his own personal hell in jail; your fellow prisoners could never fully break through the cloud of isolation that your incarceration created.

For Macbeth, the reality was that someday very soon – and which day, he had no idea – he was going die. On a date he had no control over, he would be whisked away from his cell and injected with a serum that would cause his heart to stop beating. They would watch him calmly, as he perhaps struggled against the leather restraints that bound him, until finally he stopped breathing.

It wouldn’t have been anywhere near as bad if it weren’t for the fact that he had utterly lost any sort of control over when that fateful day was come. Since the state had decided to put him to death, his continued breathing had become something of vital concern to them. He, like all death row prisoners, had been put on twenty-four hour suicide watch, his food carefully inspected, all metal implements kept strictly from him.

And so the truth of it was that he had to live every day waiting for the end to come. Logically, since he was going to be killed, he was given high-class treatment; better meals than the average prisoner, a personal cell and shower devoid of the usual sodomites and perverts. They wouldn’t grant him the right to live, or to a set execution date, but they would spend approximately fifty-thousand credits a year to ensure he stayed alive.

He was even allowed to interact with other prisoners in a special dispensation by Chief Warden Allinson. Chief Warden Allinson was a pale, brooding, ineffectual little man who treated everyone around him with total kindness and received mostly the opposite in return. The rumor was that Allinson had been promoted to his present position by a superior to spite the man who should have gotten the post, Warden Anselm, who as such hated him and encouraged others to do the same. Anselm was also pale and brooding, but distinctly more effectual than Chief Warden Allinson, and also distinctly less pleasant.

As a result of his effectual attitude toward his job – an attitude which essentially involved beatings for those unwilling to co-operate and less beatings for those that were – Warden Anselm was treated with only the highest kindness, mostly in return for surly barking. Anselm was always mean but never sarcastic. He believed strongly in truth, justice, the government, individualism, and the effectiveness of manual labor and frequent beatings. As such all inmates were expected to perform intense physical labor each day, mostly involving things that served no purpose like breaking rocks and breaking the broken rocks into smaller rocks. All inmates were also expected to show up promptly for their daily beatings, which they always did out of fear of worse beatings. Whether these things were actually effective in the correction of convicts or not was never clear to Anselm, because everyone always treated him with respect anyway.

Nonetheless, Macbeth was, on the whole, not subjected to any of Warden Anselm’s cruelty. As a death row prisoner he was treated to the best of everything the prison had to offer. Normally this wouldn’t involve interaction with the other prisoners, but for Macbeth it did. Chief Officer Allinson had taken an early liking to Venn Macbeth.

“Step forward,” Chief Officer Allinson had ordered when Macbeth had been brought to Clevinger Detention Facility. “I am Chief Officer Allinson and you will address me as sir. You will begin and end every sentence with sir. Do you understand?”

Pale, and with dark circles under his eyes, Macbeth couldn’t manage even faked enthusiasm. “Sir, yes sir,” he muttered grimly.

“You have been transferred here from the Plato District Jail. You are hereby to be known as prisoner 066321. Do you understand, 066321?”

“Yes.”

“Excuse me 066321?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“You will be issued a uniform bearing your serial number. Your belongings will be taken into custody and returned to you when you are released from prison at the end of your sentence.”

“I won’t be released.”

“Excuse me 066321?”

“Sir, I won’t be released, sir.”

“Why is that 066321?”

“Sir, I’m serving a death sentence sir.”

Chief Officer Allison blinked slowly, staring at Venn Macbeth. This knowledge slowly worked its way through his mind, the wheels turning somewhat slowly behind his eyes. “Well then. Well then,” he said, coughing and turning back to face Warden Anselm. “What is to be done about this then? With his belongings I mean?”

Warden Anselm glared back at his illegitimate superior. “Dispose of them. It doesn’t matter,” he barked.

“No, no, Warden Anselm, that simply will not do at all. It’s Standard Procedure to keep a prisoner’s belongings and return them to him when he is released. It states in Article One, Line Six of the Utropollan Standard Procedure Code that Standard Procedure may never be circumvented, regardless of the reason. No, we simply will have to keep his belongings and return them to him when he is released. Insofar as we can assume that death is a release from our custody.”

Chief Warden Allinson turned back to face Macbeth, who still glowered. Warden Anselm was now also glowering, and muttered something that sounded distinctly like “idiot” under his breath. Allinson pretended not to hear. This would come to be a pattern; Allinson could never respond to Anselm’s degradations, since to do so and still face insubordination would mean the end of his authority. He had no choice but to accept it. “Well then, 066321, please state your full name.”

“Venn Stoudius Macbeth.”

“Excuse me 066321?”

“Sir, Venn Stoudius Macbeth, sir.”

“And you are serving a death sentence, 066321?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Do you suffer from any major medical or allergic condition, 066321?”

“Sir, no sir.”

“Are you a homosexual, 066321?”

“Sir, no sir.”

“And what was your crime, 066321?”

Macbeth paused slowly. He had long ago learned to go along with the process of prison life, with the inverse being much more painful and difficult. But it still pained him more to name his crime.

“Well, speak up 066321.”

“One count of aggravated sexual assault and criminal sadism and two counts of murder.”

Chief Warden Allinson was taken aback. “Are you quite sure of that, 066321?”

Macbeth eyed him coldly but said nothing.

“Dear, dear me. I must say you do not look the type 066321. No, not the type at all.”

And so Chief Warden Allinson had taken an immediate liking to Macbeth, and had developed a fastidious belief in the man’s innocence. “I simply cannot believe it, 066321,” Allinson had said to him. “I’ve encountered many criminals, and I’d like to think myself a good judge of them. And you do not seem like one, 066321. I can’t believe that you’re guilty.”

“I’m not,” Macbeth had replied. “I would never have killed anyone willingly. I had to do it – I’ve told you, the M’krah boy was raping her.”

Chief Warden Allinson furrowed his pale brows. “Well, of course you say that, 066321. Most criminals maintain their innocence. I can’t simply believe every man who tells me that he’s innocent, or my prison would be empty.”

“But you said that you believe I’m innocent,” Macbeth said, frustrated with Allinson in spite of himself.

“I do, 066321, I do.”

In accordance with this belief in Macbeth’s innocence, Allinson allowed him to have recreational time in the yard with his fellow inmates each day, as a sort of special privilege. Logically however, due to the fact that Chief Warden Allinson was such an ineffectual little man, however, this privilege quickly became a punishment.

By way of the prisoner grapevine, it became known to Macbeth that a fellow prisoner – one of the ones he had been allowed recreational time with in the yard each day as a sort of special privilege – was Kinvess Dolarin, another M’krah thug and thus someone with his suffering as an objective.

“How much?” Macbeth had asked.

“One pack.”

He’d handed the shady Yossar the packet of cigarras, who promptly took one out and began smoking. “Word is that this Dolarin is still on M’krah’s payroll. Word is he’s going for revenge.”

“Revenge for what? They’ve already got me in jail. I have nothing in the world. What more could they take?”

“Word is you know something you’re not supposed to. Word is they don’t want to wait for the state to kill you. Word is they want you shut up now.”

“Why?”

“Word is Tallon M’krah is running for the presidency.”

“Ah.”

Macbeth had attempted to speak to Warden Anselm about it. Of course, Anselm was hostile towards him; he would have spoken to Chief Warden Allinson, except that he expected doing so would result in another of Allinson’s ineffectual schemes coming to fruition. “He’s just biding his time,” Macbeth had said. “Waiting to kill me. He’s even on M’krah’s payroll.”

Anselm shrugged. “What do you want me to do about it? I have seven prisoners come to me every week complaining of threats of violence. Do you have proof?”

“Yes, I have proof. He said he was going to kill me! He told Yossar.”

“Prove it.”

Macbeth blinked slowly and turned away. He sat lying awake that night, and the those that followed. Dark circles appeared under his eyes and stubble grew on his face. And he waited. In most ways, the waiting was worse than the thing itself would be; the acid in Macbeth’s stomach ate away at the interior of his gut, painfully swelling every time the thoughts returned to his mind. Prison routine continued unabated, dragging on like an endless march of death. And each day out in the yard, during the recreational time he’d been given as a privilege by Chief Warden Allinson, he was punished by the horrifying looks Kinvess Dolarin fixed him with.

“Why do you want to kill me?” He had whispered to him once, as they passed in the yard. Dolarin stopped and fixed him with the stone-cold glare of a killer.

“You know why.”

“But I’m not…” Macbeth began tiredly. He felt the corners of his mouth turn downwards in an unintentional grimace. “If you kill me, you’ll be stuck in here for even longer. Why do it?”

Kinvess had just smiled and walked away.

And so he continued to crawl through life without sleep, a drone, dead to the world. The walls of the prison closed in with familiarity, and the world outside shrank with them until all he could see was the hellish jail and the untimely end it presented. A dead end in the future with no way out. And by the end he prayed for death, just to end it. To end the fear and the pain and the knowledge that there was no way out. He prayed that the lawyers would finally finish squabbling and he would be carted off and humanely murdered. He prayed that every day would be his last. But it never was.

The Past…

Clevinger Detention Facility

When death finally came for Venn Stoudius Macbeth, it shied away.

He stood in the yard, grimly staring at the ground, trying to pretend he didn’t exist. Out of the corner of his eye he spied Kinvess Dolarin walking towards him. Finally then, he thought, finally maybe it was over. Death was what he feared; it was the source of his misery. But it was also what he sought to end that misery. If there had been no imminent death, there would’ve been no misery and no need for death. In the end it was better this way.

There it was. Time slowed as the bulky, balding man in his mid-thirties made his way over, his dog-stupid face and eyes emotionless. Even time conspired against Macbeth; it seemed like forever while the thug made his way over, bearing death in his hands. And when he finally arrived, something unexpected happened.

He stopped, staring Macbeth right in the eye, and reached into his pocket. Macbeth just looked back at him, utterly nonplussed. A second later, he felt something being pressed into his hand, and a second after that, he found Kinvess leaping forwards in terror, shouting at the top of his lungs. And looking down, there was a knife, clutched in his own hand.

Macbeth found Kinvess on him, pummeling him relentlessly. And before he could drop the unwanted blade, he felt the crack of something thick and hard in the back of his head.

He fell slowly and catastrophically to the gravel, striking it face first. Kinvess, still screaming in horror, launched himself on top of him. Stars sparkled in Macbeth’s dazed vision and he struggled blindly against the blows that rained down upon him. Then blows of a more sinister variety – matching that which had knocked him down – began to strike him. As his vision cleared for a brief moment, he saw Warden Anselm’s face contorted in the throes of violence. He screamed for all he was worth, hollering tunelessly in the face of agony.

Then he was under again. He felt the nightstick strike him again and again; he felt his flesh bruise and tear, felt his bones shatter into thousands of pieces. He pushed his face into the ground, fleeing impotently in a direction he could obviously not. And still the blows came, crushing him brutally. Pain overwhelmed him to the very edge of consciousness, but not enough to push him into the welcome embrace of unconsciousness. Still he was denied his sweet release. “No!” He pleaded dumbly, but still the assault came.

Then it was over. He was gone; drifting, listless, in a void of nothing, in the void of his own mind. This, at last must be death, he thought. The release denied him for so long. The ears he no longer possessed rang loudly. He expected relief to come flooding into his heart at any moment, as the realization that the pain and suffering that had come to personify his life were over, and now there was only sweet nothingness. But the relief never came. He waited and waited in the darkness, but nothing came.

Until at last the dull ringing in the ears he no longer possessed resolved itself into the vague and monotonous rhythm of speech that he didn’t understand. And slowly a realization considerably worse than death came to him; that he was not dead. That he lay face down in the dirt and mud of the Clevinger Detention Facility yard, broken and twisted, but against all odds, still breathing. Still breathing. If he could have screamed, he would have. Instead, unbeknown to the crowd he suspected surrounded him by he noise, silent tears filled his eyes.

And he heard Warden Anselm say, “I saw him draw a knife.”


The darkness that came next was corrupted by the vague knowledge – a knowledge that permeated even comatose unconsciousness – that when he awoke, he would still be alive. It lasted for a long time, as far as a person who is unconscious can tell.

When he awoke, he found himself, through bleary eyes, in a dim prison hospital ward. Outside, rain poured down. Inside, he saw a body completely incased in plaster. It was his own. It hurt to move his eyes, so he closed them. It hurt to move his mouth when he tried, so he closed it.

He couldn’t move anything else.

So he sat there. Whether anyone was aware of the fact that he was awake, he didn’t know. Occasionally, he opened his eyes and looked around. After several days like this, a nurse finally noticed and alerted her fellows. “Can you speak?” She asked.

With great effort, he unclenched his jaw. “…y-es…”

She looked relieved. He didn’t know why. “Good. You… ah… you want to know where you are, don’t you.”

His neck was in a brace; he couldn’t nod. He blinked.

“You’re in the Plato District Minimum Security Extended Residence Prison Hospital.”

“…e-extended… residence?”

“Why, yes,” the nurse said, slowly and sadly looking down at Macbeth. “You’re… oh dear.”

She called a doctor in. He didn’t know why. “Hello there, fellow,” the impressive doctor said when he came in. “Good morning.”

Macbeth blinked.

“Tell him,” the nurse whispered. Evidently she did not know that the incident had not affected Macbeth’s hearing.

“Ah… yes. Well, sir, unfortunately, during that – incident, you were… your neck was broken. You are paralyzed from the neck down. Bacta won’t help – the nerve endings are much too damaged. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. You’ll find that it is very difficult to speak, because the muscles in your face do not receive the proper amount of energy. I suggest… well I suggest you just rest for now, fellow…”


Nurse Anasthella wheeled the chair through the blissful summer day, whistling quietly. Macbeth didn’t have the energy to tell her to stop, but the bloody whistling drove him nearly insane. Anasthella was totally and completely tone-deaf, and didn’t seem to know it. “Isn’t it a lovely day?” She asked in her sing-song voice. Macbeth didn’t answer. He couldn’t be bothered. It was a lovely day in any normal person’s estimation of course, but he hardly cared. Even his execution – the one thing that might have held hope for a release from his shattered body – had been halted by the state, in accordance with laws against killing the disabled.

Anasthella was pretty, and had an amazing body; Macbeth had heard other inmates bemoaning the fact that she was married. This only made him hate her more. The secret pain of paralysis was to be a man robbed of your sexuality, but not the urges that came with it. A normal person would think that the fact one’s sexual organs did not work would be a minor thing in comparison to being quadriplegic, but a normal person wasn’t quadriplegic and couldn’t even begin to understand. Sex was a part of human life, Macbeth reflected; to have any possibility of having it robbed from you – but the desires remain – created an inestimable bitterness.

Macbeth hated everything. He hated the pretty nurse Anasthella for being pretty; he hated his fellow inmates – who he thankfully saw little of – for having use of all four of their limbs. He hated Tallon M’krah from a distance for doing this to him; he hated the world for being happy. He was a mute, shell of a man, damned to live out the rest of his fucking life a broken slave, lost in private agony no one could understand.

“We’ll go to mass, then,” Anasthella said. The local religion of Utropollus – Mercism – was a mish-mash of Force-based philosophy and monotheism. Macbeth didn’t have the strength to tell her how much he hated this, either. He’d never put any stock in religion, but now he felt especially repellant to it. If there was a god, Macbeth hated him most of all. For subjecting him to so much, for denying him even death, in reply to an attempt to help someone else. The threats of hell and damnation in reprisal for this hate didn’t scare him. It only made him hate god more for his arrogance in believing he could subject him to anything worse than his life up to that point. Thou shall not kill, thou shall not steal. If Macbeth could have moved his arms or legs, he would have killed and stolen if only to spite a dead god that had never loved him.

In the distance, he saw a shuttle craft set down. The same one as before; it flew regular missions to the prison, and was piloted by a pretty blond woman. Macbeth hated her, as well. Prodded forward by Anasthella, the chair slid slowly towards the chapel – until they were halted by Warden Vexim.

“Ah, hello there. Anasthella, is it?” Warden Vexim knew very well who Anasthella was, since like at least two other wardens he was fucking her. “Could I have a word with Venn?”

“Of course,” she said warmly, and strode off to hit on an attractive male nurse who she would probably begin fucking as well within a few days.

Vexim crouched in front of Macbeth. The prisoner fixed him with a dark stare from his eyes, which still sparkled with intelligence. “You feel up to talking, today?”

“…say what you came… here to say.”

“Good.” Vexim smiled good-naturedly. “The state has selected you for a very special honor. We’ve just received our final shipment of some very valuable – and very experimental – medical equipment. If you so desire, you are to be the first user of it. I believe that your selection was in part due to the… unfortunate circumstances surrounding your paralysis. Perhaps in apology for Warden Anselm’s actions.”

“…what… what is this ‘equipment’?”

“A new, experimental method of allowing quadriplegics some level of functionality. It involves the planting of a colony of nanites at the base of the brain, with which you will be able to control computer equipment remotely, allowing you full speech capability and the ability to manipulate machines that will assist you in your daily life.”

“…what the fuck does it matter? I’ll… still be a cripple in a chair.”

Vexim blinked and looked down. “I am offering you a chance at some level of independence and interaction with the outside world. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Then Macbeth remembered. And he replied, “yes.”

Thou shall not kill, thou shall not steal. If Macbeth could have moved his arms or legs, he would have killed and stolen if only to spite a dead god that had never loved him.

Bastion

Conclave Executor Two sat down quietly, posture perfect; attentive, though of course the red mask could have hidden even utter boredom. He was the picture of contrast when placed as he was next to Dej Kilnar, a smirking, slouching reporter equipped with ready wit and not much loyalty to anything but the concept of the Empire. A long time ago, Two would have reprimanded the man for what seemed to be blatant disrespect in the presence of Governor Theren Gevel.

But things were changing, in Two’s world.

“Well, I’m sure you know why you’re here,” Theren began, seeming to regret the clichéd words as soon as they’d left his mouth. Nonetheless, he carried on. “This is a strange case, Two, and I don’t think the Executorial Legion is equipped with the… faculties, to fully examine it.”

The debriefing from the events on Bespin had taken a long time. The Executorial Legion operated independently from the Conclave – even from Theren Gevel himself, in many ways – and though information was passed freely through the intergalactic digital net connecting the brain implants carried by every Executor, synthesizing what had happened on Bespin had not been easy for a group so very used to rigid thinking.

And so, stripped of his armor and locked in a detention complex in the Bastion Underground for weeks on end, Two had sat contemplating the choices that had brought him there. The decision to let Dej Kilnar live, despite the decision that the semi-unified consciousness of the Executors to terminate him disturbed him, now that he’d made it. Even more so, his decision to flee the falling Cloud City with the reporter.

“It’s standard Executorial policy to terminate any unit disobeying orders, or causing the death of another Executor. I’ve never entirely agreed with that policy, but I try to let the Legion operate as a cohesive unit,” Theren said. “Many Executors – Three and Four specifically – feel you intentionally escaped when you’d both agreed to die as a way to fuck with the system – get ahead.”

Any time an Executor was killed or discovered – a fate one in the same, since self-termination was the accepted protocol in the event of an Executor’s mission being uncovered – his partner was expected to provide a sufficient reason for the other’s death, or be faced with severe punishment. Sometimes this meant death; sometimes it meant the end of that Executor’s authority, and their being moved to the “end of the line”, so to speak. That is to say, the Legion’s operatives were numbered one through one-hundred, and when one died, his partner would often be shifted to position ninety nine, and each of the other teams would be shifted up by two. To outsiders, this made very little sense, but to Executors, devoid of identity, a simple change of an identifying number was insignificant. “My liege,” Two said slowly, “please understand… this is not… no Executor would willfully intend such a thing.”

Theren raised an eyebrow. “I know that no Executor would, Two. But I’m sure that…” The Governor’s voice trailed off. “You and I aren’t the only ones who know.”

Two hung his helmeted head. “Is it so obvious?”

Dej Kilnar finally spoke up. “Now just one second here. What are we talking about, here? Are you saying that two isn’t an Executor just because he refused to commit pointless suicide?” He shot a look at Theren. “Because let me tell you something, he was ready and willing to go down with that station. I was the one who convinced him not to. I’m prepared to accept full responsibility for that.”

“That is not what he means,” Two said.

“Then, what?”

Theren sighed. “The Kaminoans have only ever made two mistakes during their time in my service. The first was involving the Alpha squad of the 3rd Legion’s 13th Century. An entire batch of clones was corrupted – during the genetic alteration process involving brain patterns. They were ready to kill every last fucking one of them, too, until I stopped them. You’re looking at the second.”

“What does that mean?” Kilnar asked.

“It means that the Kaminoans got better, but not good enough. This time, it was only one unit; Two. He was a child when they found out. No amount of corrective training could change it.”

Kilnar was quickly growing frustrated. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that Two’s brain patterns differ from the norm. They are not as restricted as most Executors are; he enjoys the single-minded determination and collaborative ability of the others without incurring the cost – or curse – of their simple thought processes. He’s closer to human than the others.”

“So, what?” Kilnar said, frowning. “Is that something to be ashamed of?”

“I never said it was,” Theren muttered back harshly. “Two, do you know what the Executorial Legion has recommended for you?”

“I would assume their judgment to involve death. And if so, I accept it – I do not believe I can properly serve –”

“That’s enough. I’m not going to kill you, Two. I’m not even angry. I’m not a murderer and I don’t condone what you and One decided to do. And I know that it was more him than you – don’t try to tell me otherwise. Your unthinking obedience has always been more forced than natural.”

“My lord,” Two said, again invoking one of his flattering names for Theren, “you know I will accept whatever judgment you dole out. But you know the others will resent you for interfering –”

Theren had always wondered whether Two’s excessive flattery and loyalty to him was forced or actual. He knew that Two was a believer in the Imperial ideal and more so a believer in Theren’s ideals; he knew that his belief was not blind faith but intelligent trust. But he didn’t know whether the names were an exaggeration to hide his own deviant thoughts or genuine adoration. “Two,” he cut the Executor off again. “The other Executors are not like you. They don’t understand. They can’t understand. You have to stop being ashamed of that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Two,” Theren said again. “I mean it. You can say ‘yes sir’ all you want, but we both know you have a mind of your own. You have a gift.”

“Yes, sir.”

Again Theren wondered if it was forced or not. “Again, I’m not having you killed. In fact I’m offering you the position of One. I like the idea of someone who can think for himself in charge of the Executorial Legion. You’re free to decline of course, but either way you are returning to active duty.”

Two shook his head. “You know I have to decline, sir.”

“No, Two, you don’t.”

“I do.”

Theren sighed. “Well, then I will have a replacement One made.”

“Yes. And… thank you, sir.”

“Don’t mention it. Dismissed.”

The reporter and Executor got up and left, striding confidently away. “Well, that went pretty goddamn well, I’d say, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Two said quietly. Under his helmet, behind the emotionless black of the dome’s eye-slits, there was something that few Conclave Executors had ever experienced; tears of gratitude. Things were changing, in Two’s world; but for better or for worse, he still didn’t know.