Commander Vict Darron, accompanied by several of his stormtroopers, approached the doors of the compartment where his meeting was scheduled. The two sentients standing guard at the entrance to the required section of the Chimaera, clad in crimson-black armor of the Imperial Guard, unceremoniously and silently blocked the path of the armed Imperials.
The hint was more than blatant.
A silent command that only one mistakenly classified as sentient would dare disobey.
The commander surrendered his standard blaster to the guards before entering, ordering his stormtroopers to await his return at the entrance. Judging by their hesitation, his escorts were clearly uncomfortable being in the same room as the Grand Admiral, an unknown gray-skinned sentient, and a naval officer with major's command insignia but the cold gaze of a killer.
— Please, take a seat, Commander Darron, — Thrawn said in a low voice, gesturing to a standard metallic chair. Such chairs are commonly found aboard Imperial warships above the cruiser class. Simple to manufacture, sturdy, and equipped with magnetic grips hidden in the legs to prevent the furniture from sliding across the ship during emergencies.
— Thank you, Grand Admiral, — the commander of the Direption replied reservedly, taking his seat opposite the Supreme Commander.
— Let us proceed to business, Commander, — Thrawn continued in the same tone. — You are aware that, as a result of the New Republic's treacherous attack on the Ciutric Hegemony, its defense fleet has been partially destroyed, and Prince-Admiral Krennel, along with his senior officers, perished aboard the Reckoning during the Republic's assault?
— Affirmative, Grand Admiral, — the commander replied. — Thank you for granting me the opportunity to communicate freely with the commanders of the remaining ships and the base commandant on Ciutric.
— At present, you are the highest-ranking officer in the Hegemony, — Thrawn continued, seemingly ignoring Vict's words. — In effect, given the military dictatorship imposed by the Prince-Admiral, you are also the acting head of state.
— The fastest career ascent of my life, — Darron grumbled. — And one I neither desired nor contemplated.
— That is known to me, Commander, — Thrawn nodded. — Are you aware of the current situation in the Imperial state under your protection?
— The situation is "bantha fodder and nowhere to go," — the commander of the Direption said bluntly. — Three systems are under pirate occupation. Direct flights beyond the Hegemony through the Liinade system are blocked by a pirate interdictor cruiser. If my memory of the statistics is correct, losing those planets costs us over fifteen percent of our gross domestic income.
— You are well-informed about the Hegemony's internal affairs, — Thrawn commended.
— Had to pass the time during patrols somehow, — Vict admitted. — I read open data. Not everything is about fussing over supply invoices, repair budgets, and destroyer maintenance, you know.
— What will your next steps be? — Thrawn inquired.
"Is he joking?" Darron nearly blurted out.
But he bit his tongue just in time.
Grand Admirals don't jest. They're organically incapable of it. Especially this one.
Still, looking at it from another angle… He could boldly tell Thrawn to get lost—everyone in the Imperial Remnants knows the last Grand Admiral of the Galactic Empire holds no real authority over the armed forces, let alone the political powers, in the Remnants. They dumped all the unreliable, uncompromising, and otherwise undesirable Imperials on him, gave him a few ships, and sent him to fight the New Republic so he wouldn't meddle in the division of what remained after Endor and the Imperial Civil War. Which, frankly, is still ongoing. Just less overtly.
Except now, this sentient commands at least six more Imperials than he started with. Not to mention nearly a hundred aging but still combat-capable Dreadnought-class heavy cruisers. And the number of New Republic starships he seized after this battle… It's best to keep quiet and pray the Grand Admiral doesn't get the idea to quietly seize power in the Ciutric Hegemony.
Because after Krennel's destruction and his much-touted "impenetrable defense" of the Ciutric Hegemony's worlds, coupled with everything Thrawn said during the broadcast of the New Republic's thrashing, there's a certain sentiment among the military about joining him.
Even civilians are stirring.
Rumors reached Vict that Thrawn is somehow tied to the Morshdine sector—at least equipment from Ciutric's factories was shipped there. And, by hearsay, the Grand Admiral and his subordinate Moff have created quite a cozy little haven in that sector. True, they even give aliens a chance at decent work and civil rights, something the Hegemony could only dream of.
But that's not the top priority…
The main point is that, by broadcasting the thrashing of one of the New Republic's four military fleets, Thrawn demonstrated that, unlike the pompous Krennel with his sadistic tendencies and penchant for purges among his own people, he actually wins. And if you consider that all the achievements Krennel claimed were Thrawn's (how else, when the Prince-Admiral's fleet never left Hegemony systems?), the prospects become downright grim.
Thus, it was decided to "strike preemptively."
— I'll repair the ships, replenish the crews, and begin the cleanup, — he said straightforwardly.
— How many ships remain in the Hegemony's defense fleet? — the Grand Admiral clarified. — Combat-ready ones.
— Two Imperial-IIs: the Relentless and the Direption, two Victories: the Emperor's Wisdom and two interdictor cruisers, plus a couple of Dreadnoughts with Imperial upgrades, — Darron replied promptly. — And three Strike-class cruisers. Not counting the Reckoning and the trio of Mon Calamari star cruisers…
— Which are under my people's control, — Thrawn's voice was firm, uncompromising, and made it abundantly clear—he wasn't relinquishing those starships. They, like the Republic vessels, were his property.
And it's hard to blame the commander—based on the information Darron received from his subordinates, the Reckoning's crew had abandoned ship by the time Thrawn's people boarded and saved it from Republic bombardment. The star cruisers surrendered to the Fourth Fleet… Per the Admiralty Code on "Disputes over Salvaged Government Property in Distress" (mirrored by the New Republic in their equivalent acts), Thrawn acted with surgical precision. Those starships belong to him—as do the pair of Strikes. But they're so riddled with damage that their professional utility isn't even worth discussing.
— Correct, sir, — Darron sighed. — We're left with half a fleet.
— Less than a seventh, if you account for the medium cruisers and the Mon Calamari trophies I sold to Krennel, — Thrawn continued.
"Ah! Now I see where those Republic ships came from," a thought flashed through the commander's mind. Nothing surprising, though.
— I trust you understand that with such a fleet, even with significant mobilization resources, you cannot protect the Hegemony from pirate plundering in your backyard or a second New Republic strike? — Thrawn pressed.
— I understand perfectly, Grand Admiral, — Darron didn't mince words. — As do all the military commanders still alive. We can't even dislodge the pirates—let alone patrol all systems, even with one ship per system.
— I'm pleased you grasp this, Commander, — Thrawn continued. — In that case, what will your next steps be? Joining the New Republic?
— Do I look like a suicide case? — Vict blurted out. — Apologies, sir.
— It's fine, — Thrawn reassured him. — Explain the reasoning behind your reaction.
— Had you not arrived, the Hegemony would likely have been forced to capitulate to the New Republic, — he admitted. — Despite the pro-human policies of the New Order enforced by the Prince-Admiral, humans make up just over fifty-six percent of the population here. The rest are non-human species who aren't exactly thrilled about being oppressed based on race or other traits. They're mostly stuck in menial, low-paying jobs, as it's their only way to earn a living. So yes, if the New Republic took root here, the Hegemony would've surrendered completely.
— Merging with other Remnants could stabilize the situation, — Thrawn suggested. — For instance, with Imperial Space. Orinda would welcome you…
— With all due respect, I'd sooner believe the Imperial Ruling Council would order the removal of all our military production, dooming the Hegemony to languish like other backwaters, — Darron said frankly. — They'd take all our destroyers and, if they sent anything in return, it'd be junk older than our Dreadnoughts. That would trigger capital flight, elite exodus, and so on—downward spiral. Within six months, the New Republic would swoop in to "liberate territories groaning under the New Order's oppression," populated mostly by non-humans. Merging with someone stronger is a sure path to stagnation. And merging with another sector… Sir, may I speak plainly?
— I thought you already were, Commander, — Thrawn's brow rose slightly. Barely a couple of millimeters. But the display of surprise was noted.
— Indeed, sir, — Vict said, abashed. — The thing is, we're one of three major Remnants. Not territorially, but economically and industrially. We exist because we have what others don't—Imperial production. Anyone aiming to replace Krennel would target that first. Our fleet isn't strong enough to fend them off. The Prince-Admiral might've managed with these forces, but not me. I'm a decent formation commander, nothing more.
— You seem to have a reasonable grasp of the Hegemony's internal affairs, — Thrawn noted.
— Only on the surface, — the commander didn't hide. — Sir, it's been mere hours since the Prince-Admiral's death, and the Hegemony is already boiling. I can't control such a territory or quell public unrest—at least not entirely. I could find common ground with a couple of planets, but practically all of them are rebelling. So far, without weapons, but… Once the discontented realize Ciutric no longer has the strength to hold them by force, it's over. The Hegemony will collapse on its own.
— As I recall, this didn't happen under Krennel or Pestage, — Thrawn observed.
— Correct, sir, — Vict confirmed. — The Pestage family easily found common ground with the population—humans and non-humans alike—so there were no issues. The New Order was present here but didn't manifest as human-centric policy more than elsewhere in the Empire. Sentients are fairly tolerant of each other—they just don't advertise it. New Order fanatics aren't as numerous as one might think. But after his overthrow, everything… — the commander paused, searching for the right words. — Prince-Admiral Krennel changed it all.
— For the worse, I presume? — Thrawn inquired.
— If, in just a few years, half the population of all systems is ready to revolt and wishes death upon their ruler, can that be considered a success? — Darron clarified.
— A rhetorical question, — Thrawn stated. The commander nodded silently. — You're not afraid to voice your opinions. That's unusual for officers under the Prince-Admiral's command.
— I'm not exactly the most obedient, — Vict shrugged.
— But effective, since Krennel entrusted you with a II-class, — the Grand Admiral noted reasonably.
— He didn't spare my predecessor, — Darron darkened.
— I've heard of that situation in passing, — Vict barely restrained a gasp. Hearing such a colloquial phrase from a Grand Admiral… Hmm… Aren't they all pompous snobs? Or not all? — But I'd like to hear it from the source.
Vict averted his gaze:
— Captain Rensen commanded the Direption before me. The Prince-Admiral ordered him to destroy a village that, for some reason, was sheltering a sentient who, for unknown reasons, wanted to kill Krennel. Rensen refused. Krennel crushed his trachea and handed the ship to me.
— Unwise, — Thrawn stated.
— I manage the command, sir, — Vict said, a bit sharply. Maybe to the Hutt with this Thrawn?!
— I don't doubt that, — Thrawn confirmed. — It's unwise to kill a capable commander merely for refusing a thoughtless order. And even more unwise to destroy a settlement over one individual. There's the law, there's investigation—that's their job, to handle such matters.
Vict took a discreet breath. His urge to argue with the Supreme Commander faded.
— I thought along similar lines, — he admitted. — As soon as I stepped onto the Direption's bridge, Krennel gave me his first order: complete the task Rensen refused and destroy the village on Liinade III.
— Did you comply?
— Yes, sir, — Darron confirmed without flinching. — But in the way I deemed right.
— Elaborate.
— Had I refused, Krennel would've killed me too. Had I destroyed the village and its population, I couldn't face people. Rensen was a native of Liinade III, and I respected him. I respect anyone until they commit a crime.
— What solution did you find? — Thrawn's voice hinted at curiosity.
— I informed the village residents why they were targeted, — Vict explained. — And clarified that after returning to my ship, I'd begin maintenance on the turbolasers. Once finished—in half a day—I'd reduce their village to dust.
— So, by the time your ship's maintenance was complete, the residents had evacuated? — the Grand Admiral asked.
— Affirmative, sir, — the commander admitted. — Krennel was irritated by my actions but couldn't dispute that they had the same effect as if I'd eliminated the residents. Assassination attempts on the Prince-Admiral ceased. Krennel warned me he'd tolerate no further disobedience. To keep me out of trouble, he sent me on endless patrols. I, in turn, did everything to transfer all "disobedient" officers and enlisted personnel from other Hegemony defense fleet ships under my command to prevent their execution on trumped-up charges.
— How trumped-up? — Thrawn pressed.
Vict sighed deeply.
— Mostly those who hesitated to salute the admiral when he arrived on their ships' decks.
Thrawn paused before responding.
— It seems Darth Vader's bad habits took root in the fleet in a grossly perverse form, — he commented. — But that's beside the point. Let's move to your request.
— Request, sir? — the commander faltered slightly. He glanced around, seeking someone to explain… Oh, how that gray-skinned one is grinning. And that menacing sound…
— Rukh, — the Grand Admiral addressed the unknown sentient. — Stop laughing.
You little pest! I ought to hang you by your antenna!
— Commander, — Thrawn said patiently. — I have limited time, so I'll state the facts without delving into details. Your unit withdrew from patrol on Krennel's orders, who deployed pirates and mercenaries into battle. You went into comms silence immediately after retreating. You arrived well after the New Republic fleet's defeat—three hours beyond the travel time from Liinade III to Ciutric IV. This clearly indicates you exited hyperspace somewhere and monitored the situation. That's how you learned of my fleet's approach and the ultimatum issued to Counselor Fey'lya. Given the active comms traffic between the cruiser Stormhawk and an unknown recipient during the battle, I'm certain Captain Fulic's communications were directly with you. Then, after crossing the light barrier and assessing the system's events, you requested this meeting but first discussed the situation with other officers. Throughout our conversation, you've repeatedly highlighted the Hegemony's dire state due to the absence of a strong patron while downplaying your tactical merits and emphasizing your shortcomings in state governance. I get the impression you're well aware of my relations with other Imperial Remnants and are awkwardly hinting that I should stay in the Ciutric Hegemony. So, my question is—why should I do so and risk conflict with at least the Imperial Ruling Council, which dreams of swallowing your Remnant?
Only years of service under a tyrant like the Prince-Admiral prepared him for such conversational twists, allowing him to restrain himself and not sit gape-mouthed before the Supreme Commander.
— Sir, — Vict cleared his throat. — Most of my life has been spent in the Hegemony. It's a splendid corner of the galaxy with hardworking, pleasant sentients open to constructive dialogue. You're a… sentient who enjoys popularity in the upper echelons of what remains of the Empire. The Hegemony's sentients respect the calm and rationality of Imperial laws. Were it not for the Prince-Admiral's sadistic policies, the Hegemony could've been a desirable place for those wishing to live in Imperial realities without extremes. My colleagues and I heard rumors that, under your command, I presume, the Morshdine sector has been developing. And various sentient species coexist quite well there. Krennel's policies alienated many—take the loss of a well-developed world like Axsila. Sure, it's not without issues, but their industry is a major income source, not to mention they live by the same order we once did. Moreover, the Hegemony is relatively easy to defend—few hyperspace routes lead here: the Selonian Spur, used by ships to and from other Remnants, and the Veragi Trade Route to the galaxy's northern fringes. With a strong fleet, you could hold defenses here indefinitely. And if you allied with systems in nearby sectors—Spritzen, Quelli, Traga, Kanz—most of which are currently abandoned to their fate, you'd form a sector agglomeration that still remembers the Confederacy of Independent Systems and isn't keen on living under the New Republic. Nor does the New Order suit them for obvious reasons. So, if you agree to rule us, you won't regret it!
Vict felt short of breath.
He'd delivered his tirade in one go, and now his lungs burned from lack of oxygen. He rushed to convey everything discussed with his "fellow sufferers," each offering arguments to sway the Grand Admiral to stay in the Hegemony. Yes, the talk of easily annexing neighboring sectors was a "slight exaggeration," but it's possible. If you don't try to conquer them by force like Krennel or impose yourself. "Soft power," as diplomats love to say.
In short, the Grand Admiral must see the prospects and save them.
Because nothing—not the fleet, nor the Prince-Admiral's sadistic madness—can save the Hegemony from internal collapse and subsequent dismantling. For someone who served to protect these worlds and their sentient inhabitants, watching it all crumble is painful. If there's even a chance…
— I will consider your proposal, Commander, — Thrawn declared. — But before you and Ciutric's population hear it, we'll address a few issues together.
— As you say, sir, — Vict thought. If he didn't refuse outright, he won't send us packing later. And who'd turn down a prize like the Hegemony with all its industry? Only a complete idiot. And they don't appoint those as Grand Admirals. Here, they're practically inviting him to rule and protect them. If they maintain old ties and build new logistical and trade relations with the Imperial Remnants and nearby systems, it'll be splendid! Direct profits not to enriching decrepit elites but to civilian needs, as the Pestage family did, and no people in the galaxy will be more loyal to the Grand Admiral than the Ciutric Hegemony's residents. They remember kindness here. But betrayal and cruelty? Never understood or accepted. — I and the entire military-civilian administration of the Hegemony are at your service.
Ciutric Sector.
— In that case, — the Grand Admiral's glowing eyes, though not radiating danger, gleamed. Vict felt a lump in his throat. Are they making a mistake handing power to the Grand Admiral? He checked himself. No, they aren't. If he wanted to rule by force, he'd have long since used a Torpedo Sphere to shatter planetary shields, seized the capital, and then the other worlds and systems. — We'll start by visiting Prince-Admiral Krennel's palace and addressing his endless prisons. I want to know the pitfalls in the Ciutric Hegemony and the consequences I'll face if I agree in principle to make it my base and protected territory. One more thing. Ensure that investigators arriving soon have access to all documents related to the repressions conducted by Prince-Admiral Krennel. And hurry to contact planetary representatives—I wish to meet and speak with them, explaining that the regime of bloody terror is over.
— The planet is entirely at your service, Grand Admiral, — Darron forced a smile. — As is the entire Hegemony.
He'll agree.
Even when he sees how deep in the sarlacc pit the Hegemony is.
He didn't travel Hutt-knows-how-far just to slap the Republicans and tell the galaxy he crushed them here, did he? No, he came deliberately. It's impossible to end up here "by chance." Surely, like other warlords, he's had his eye on the Hegemony for a while and is now playing "hard to get" to make his rule seem more legitimate. As in, not seized by force but offered willingly.
Or are the counterintelligence folks wrong, and Thrawn doesn't care about the Hegemony, landing here by accident?
No, that's nonsense.
Nonsense, right?!
Few things in this galaxy did Grand Moff Ardus Kaine value more than power over his little kingdom—the Pentastar Alignment.
One such thing was loyalty. Not to regimes, orders, or other nonsense that fades from the galaxy as quickly as it settles. That requires only a certain force to strip away the external sheen and expose internal flaws.
Grand Moff Ardus Kaine valued supporters and those loyal to him.
Despite his calm stance toward aliens and a policy of tolerance for their participation in the Alignment's life, Kaine never had friends among them.
If he were honest, he never had friends at all.
But he cherished connections with certain people.
First were the four other leaders of the Alignment, with whom he built his little kingdom. This category also included those with whom he shared long, fruitful, and mutually beneficial cooperation.
Second were valuable resources—human and material. Essential for someone living atop a tibanna cistern, knowing that, sooner or later, the New Republic's greedy democrats would reach for his creation.
As they did with the Ciutric Hegemony.
No, he's openly delighted that the bastard Krennel, a sadist devoid of even the slightest shred of sanity, is finally dead.
The Prince-Admiral's death opened wide prospects for absorbing the Hegemony and adding it to the Alignment—something that had to be done before Orinda's senile thieves and embezzlers fouled it up and snatched the prize from under his nose.
But one thing thoroughly displeased him: a clear understanding of a simple truth.
Grand Admiral Thrawn isn't prone to empty boasts or blatant lies.
Which means…
His usual discipline and self-control cracked.
The glass of Corellian whiskey, ice cubes and all, flew across the room, away from the Grand Moff.
With crystalline chimes, the costly glassware shattered into tiny pieces, staining the wall with a splash that instantly reeked of alcohol.
— May a Hutt rut you in every pore and tear you by the hair, Grant! — Ardus roared in impotent rage, kicking his desk with all his might. The massive piece, crafted entirely from real Kashyyyk wood and costing him a good million credits, surprisingly withstood the abuse. But his foot, in a polished naval boot, throbbed from toes to tailbone. — Octavian, you Tapani-spawned bantha! How could you screw up so badly?!
Former Grand Admiral Octavian Grant fell into both categories Kaine valued.
He was both a loyal ally and a valuable resource.
The Empire plunged into chaotic strife after the Emperor and his attack dog, Darth Vader, died during the Battle of Endor, four years after the first Death Star's destruction.
Unlike many peers, Octavian Grant wasn't blinded by his convictions, fully aware that, though he believed he deserved to rule as a high-born aristocrat of the Tapani sector, he lacked the strength or influence to seize the Empire effectively. This stemmed largely from his failure to befriend any Moffs during his service. His anti-political worldview didn't help either. He was frankly weak. His only hope was the loyalty of his Star Destroyer's crew—the sole force that obeyed him and showed any allegiance to the Tapanian.
Unsurprisingly, after Endor, his fellow Grand Admirals considered Octavian Grant the first among them to perish in the bloody carnage of the Imperial Civil War following the Imperial fleet's rout at Endor.
Only Kaine knew Octavian wasn't foolish enough to die in the war's early months.
He found refuge in Kaine's Pentastar Alignment and even aided in several military campaigns. For that, he was valued.
Grant and Kaine watched as other Grand Admirals, admirals, Grand Moffs, Moffs, and warlords were either captured and executed by the New Republic or killed battling other Imperial factions.
Kaine bet on using Grant's superb tactical skills and strategic acumen to expand the Alignment when the time came. He even entertained thoughts of conquering Coruscant.
Grant devised long-term victorious campaign plans for him and held key Alignment secrets. But at the critical moment, he set off on a raid with his flagship…
And never returned.
For a long time, he was presumed dead. Then rumors surfaced of his alleged capture by Republicans. No one could confirm such claims, and Kaine, to protect his reputation, spent billions to silence such "gossips." Some got credits, others got fists, and some a knife to the liver.
Methods to shut unwelcome mouths vary.
Rumors of Grant's betrayal faded.
And now this. Not only did Thrawn apparently detect tracking devices on the starships given to him, but he also, as he claims, captured Grant. Who, per the blue-skinned freak's galaxy-wide broadcast, indeed turned traitor and collaborated with the New Republic.
Desertion, treason, high treason—just the opening lines in evening news bulletins. First, journalists will chew over the veracity of Thrawn's words. Then, chasing "exclusives," they'll dig into Octavian's past, uncover his ties to Kaine—and you can forget those peaceful days seeming dull and boring.
The reputation he so carefully guarded was trampled, tarnished, and soon to be wiped on.
The Alignment will face turbulent times.
Hutt-spawned Thrawn!
May your chair's seat burn under you!
Bastard!
Why did you open your filthy mouth now?!
You, you scum, even if you captured Grant, know damn well who he last worked with.
Use your brain in that empty skull! Come and say, "Hey, Ardus, I've got your pal. Want him back?"
Your m-o-t-h-e-r, what a mess!
A knock sounded on the ornately inlaid door panel, mounted on hinges like in archaic times.
— Get lost! — Kaine bellowed. A thin stack of flimsi—a new report—slid under the door. He preferred reading documents on "paper" rather than a datapad screen. Hurried footsteps followed outside.
No time for chats.
Time to think.
Think hard and long.
So.
Thrawn's proven he's a damn clever and pragmatic bastard. Trading ships for a traitor's death is a fine deal. True, Kaine agreed to it to learn where the blue-faced one was truly based. But that's history.
Now he's spilling this across the galaxy.
Credit where it's due—he smeared the Bothans and the New Republic's military prestige magnificently. So thinly spread, they'll be scrubbing it off for ages. Not to mention framing it as if he just happened to be nearby. Knowing this alien's cunning, he likely orchestrated it to be in the right place at the right time with enough forces to kick Republican ass. Well, intelligence will report on that. Did he shelter Ubiqtorate snakes for nothing?! Let them work, scum!
They can't even explain where three Star Destroyers vanished, sent chasing a single deserter ship. With incomplete crews, no less… Ugh…
Time to assume those destroyers are in Thrawn's fleet, or not? Probably the latter. All four starships, possibly with crews, now belong to the thirteenth Grand Admiral.
His usual restraint and phlegm vanished as swiftly as dust from leaves in the rain.
With them came not just fury at those around him but a realization of one simple fact.
That bastard Grant must be extracted from Thrawn's clutches immediately.
Not just to gain political capital from his trial and execution or, conversely, to hide him from prying eyes and force him to strategize against the Chiss himself.
Grant knows too much.
The fact that the New Republic spared his life suggests several things.
First—he handed over his flagship and crew to Coruscant's new masters. That's why there's been no sign of them all these years.
Second—they spared him only under one condition. Grant talked. A lot, long, and thoroughly, leaking Imperial secrets to the enemy.
This could explain the Rebels' capture of many secret Imperial bases and depots in the years since his "disappearance."
Perhaps Grant even aided the New Republic in developing strategy and tactics—their victory over Zsinj and other fools seems too fantastical otherwise.
But none of that matters as much as the work Octavian did in the Pentastar Alignment.
It was his idea to conceal the capital of Kaine's little empire—his homeworld, Sartinaynian, renamed Bastion. Thanks to Kaine's Ubiqtorate and Inquisitorius subordinates, its coordinates were erased from most information sources, making the Alignment's future capital safe from sudden invasions or attacks by rivals and outright enemies.
Given how robustly Bastion's security is enforced, not even a womp rat could sneak in. If the New Republic had this information, they'd have sent scouts at least. But they haven't.
Thus, Octavian kept his filthy tongue in check on this, at least.
But there's no certainty Thrawn will be as diplomatic toward a former colleague and traitor as the New Republic's democrats.
Which leads to the only correct conclusion—Octavian must be extracted by any means. Trade, buy, beg. Spin a tearful tale of friendship or something similar to make the blue-faced bastard believe.
Because captivity under Thrawn might not just loosen Grant's tongue but a public trial of the traitor could elevate Thrawn to untouchable heights.
If the urge to rip out Grant's throat among Imperials had waned, recent events will inflame it so fiercely it's hard to predict.
Not to mention the nearly dried trickle of volunteers willing to work for the Grand Admiral will turn into a roaring river. Well, of course. Krennel so vividly claimed "his" achievements, stealing others' victories, that the true "culprit" stepping from the shadows will be such a potent motivator it'll be unstoppable. While Kaine was confident in the Alignment, Orinda and Imperial Space might buckle under the pressure.
The situation must be discussed with the Imperial Ruling Council.
Perhaps Thrawn's current actions could be framed as violating his obligation not to meddle in the Empire's internal politics. Though…
That's all dust and nonsense.
Thrawn's no fool. His galaxy-wide PR stunt is so effective the Ruling Council will think thrice before rushing to embrace him. Thrawn undoubtedly has proof of his direct involvement in all claimed events, meaning he's caused the New Republic more headaches and problems in four months than all Remnants combined. Which, in turn, means a simple truth—if Imperial ships from Tangrene poke their noses into his base, or the Ruling Council openly interferes, it'll ignite the Empire's masses. Councilors and their subordinates would be strangled bare-handed.
Then Imperials would march through interstellar void to seize Coruscant.
Ardus tried to calm himself.
No hasty decisions.
Except one—head to Ciutric IV immediately, subjugate the Hegemony, then contact Thrawn to clarify the possibility of transferring Octavian to him. Perhaps even agree to jointly eliminate the traitor—that way, secrets stay safe.
But it must be done very, very quickly.
The Grand Moff took a few steps toward his desk. Then he changed course, approached the door, and picked up the documents from the floor.
Nothing better than disconnecting from reality by diving into current situation analysis. Best done in a comfy chair…
And the secure, encrypted comlink for contacting the Reaper is built into the desk's surface.
Slumping into the soft chair, Ardus skimmed the report's opening lines.
His hand, reaching for the comlink, froze mid-air.
Then slowly clenched into a fist—as his pupils widened.
The subsiding fury reignited with renewed vigor, boiling into rage.
May Palpatine's mother die a virgin?!
This is beyond the pale?!
Thrawn, five minutes ago, declared his protectorate over the Ciutric Hegemony's worlds and announced a policy of complete benevolence for all intending to resettle under his protection.
Regardless of gender, age, race, or skin color…
Ardus Kaine stared at the Ubiqtorate report with wide eyes.
His polished phlegm and years-honed restraint vanished, leaving only prime barracks profanity in his mind.
The Empire's last Grand Admiral just openly wiped his boots on the New Order, the Imperial Ruling Council, and all restrictions imposed on him by power-hungry elites nearly two years ago.
The Grand Moff shook his head in stunned admiration.
This alien had the audacity and sheer guts to do what many Imperial warlords talked about but never dared, fearing the others would tear them apart.
Which means…
Thrawn has something to bloody the nose of anyone trying to invade his domain.
The Katana fleet?
Hardly amusing.
Ardus Kaine could think of only one thing that instilled such confidence in Imperial invulnerability.
It seems Krennel did have his own Death Star after all.
And now Thrawn has it.
A big club to break the spine of anyone coming at him with fists.
You'd think thirty times before unleashing the Reaper…
— This is the Grand Moff, — Ardus finally keyed the comlink's frequency. But it wasn't linked to his super star destroyer. — Immediately recall all spies you have in the Ciutric Hegemony. We don't need Grand Admiral Thrawn thinking we're still tracking him.
Without waiting for a reply, he disconnected.
Things were heating up… Very, very much.
Best not get burned.
After the holorecording ended and the image of Borsk Fey'lya kneeling before the Imperial Grand Admiral froze, it was time for the gathered to react.
Mon Mothma sat pale as chalk, a stark contrast to her red hair. Her frightened gaze and hands pressed to her lips eloquently spoke of the Provisional Government leader's state.
Admiral Ackbar, freed from prison just hours ago and reinstated as commander-in-chief of the New Republic's Armed Forces by Mon Mothma's special order, gazed at the holorecording with characteristic Mon Calamari phlegm, blinking slowly.
Admiral Drayson, head of Republic intelligence, sat with downcast eyes, trying to become as inconspicuous as possible. Or at least fall through a few floors of the Imperial Palace and, ideally, get lost in its corridor maze to avoid detection.
Holograms of Generals Han Solo, Wedge Antilles, and young Jedi Luke Skywalker stared silently ahead.
The silence in the Provisional Government's meeting hall was strikingly impenetrable.
It seemed even the cooling fans of the supercomputers and the ventilation system, in this hour of Republic disgrace, decided to contribute to the tension by operating more quietly than usual.
— Well, then, — General Solo spoke first, — I suppose no one now doubts that at Honoghr, I wasn't chatting with a "wedding Grand Admiral"?
— I think the only one who didn't believe that is currently serving as a boot-polishing brush for Grand Admiral Thrawn, — Wedge said with a nervous smile.
— I see no cause for jest, General Antilles, — Admiral Ackbar said sternly. — Nor for joy. We're in a crisis.
— I'd put it more succinctly, but then I'd be kicked out of polite society, where I was dragged against my will, — Solo remarked.
— I disagree, Admiral, — the former Rogue Squadron commander unexpectedly dug in. — I have cause for joy.
— On what grounds? — the Mon Calamari's voice sharpened.
— This Imp was too busy with Ciutric IV and wasn't at Liinade III, — Wedge explained. — Otherwise, my name might've been on that list.
Luke, standing by the holoprojector next to the youngest New Republic general, nudged him with an elbow. Not the time for jokes.
— How bad is it? — Mon Mothma finally mustered the composure to speak.
— I'd phrase it more precisely, — Han warned.
— I'll repeat, — Ackbar interjected. — In the time since my release, I've reviewed little of Counselor Fey'lya's information, but I doubt things are better than they seem. We're in a crisis. The Fourth Military Fleet's core is either destroyed or captured. The Bothan fleet effectively ceased to exist. The New Republic's act of aggression against a neutral state—one that, as it turns out, wanted to join us and offered a planet for Alderaanian refugees—has become galaxy-wide news. I've already ordered the remaining starships recalled from searches in the Ghost Nebula. It's clear that was disinformation to distract us from the main theater of operations.
— I'll try to address the political issues at an emergency Senate session, — Mon Mothma said. — I managed to delay it by a couple of days. Can we assemble a fleet and return to Ciutric IV in that time?
— To get thrashed again? — Han asked grimly, earning a predictably disapproving look from the Mon Calamari.
— Though not in such terms, I agree with General Solo, — Ackbar rasped. — Without intelligence, it's obvious that if Thrawn crushed over fifty of our warships and then declared a protectorate over the Ciutric Hegemony's worlds and any others wishing to join, he possesses forces far exceeding what we can muster, prepare, and deploy soon. I don't recommend a military solution.
— Then what are we discussing? — Mon Mothma's voice was nervous and uncertain. — Just swallow this bitter pill?
— Even if we wanted to, we can't, — Wedge stated. — Thrawn didn't just slap our cheeks. He's been gut-punching us all along, so skillfully we invented three enemies instead of one. Though, we can't rule out that they might be working together—Krennel, Thrawn, and Isard.
— Why stop there, — Han sighed. — The whole Empire's against us. But Thrawn's on the front line. About whom we know nothing, right, Admiral Drayson?
The head of Republic intelligence nodded affirmatively.
— We can't leave things as they are, — Mon Mothma pressed. — Soon, news of our defeat will reach the galaxy's fringes. Systems and entire sectors will panic. They might even try to leave the New Republic…
— I'm most concerned that our already weakened fleet is in such a precarious position, — Ackbar held his line. — Hundreds of thousands of personnel languish in captivity…
— And I'm concerned that my friends and wife are among them, — Han Solo said sharply.
— Either way, we have plenty to worry about, — Mon Mothma concluded. — Sentients in Imperial hands must be returned from captivity by any means available.
— Unfortunately, we don't know where they're held, — Drayson said. — Otherwise, I'd have already prepared a plan for their rescue and evacuation…
— I'll repeat again, — irritation crept into Ackbar's voice. — In these circumstances, a military operation or special op to free them would only lead to greater losses among personnel and add more arguments to Grand Admiral Thrawn's case against us. We need another solution.
— Does anyone have one? — General Solo asked.
Another silence hung in the air.
— There is one, — Mon Mothma said quietly. — Thrawn's.
— Who'd have guessed, — Wedge said grimly. — And what does he want?
— A prisoner exchange, — Ackbar explained. — Our captives for Imperials in our prisons, one-for-one.
— Is he unaware we don't even have a couple thousand of those? — Wedge asked, surprised. — We don't keep surrendered prisoners in confinement but offer amnesty, and most join the New Republic's service. Only the utterly depraved and deranged war criminals are in prisons…
— I'm certain the Grand Admiral is fully aware, — Ackbar sighed sadly. — And he knows our position makes a straight prisoner-for-prisoner exchange disadvantageous. It would make those still captive resent us for such decisions. So, Thrawn proposes we supplement the remaining prisoners with captured Imperial equipment. Fighters, ships, tanks, artillery—whatever we have.
— These are just preliminary demands, sent alongside the Fey'lya defeat recordings, — Mon Mothma said quickly.
— Thrawn wants to hunt in deep waters, — Ackbar mused. — And he's done it so we can't refuse.
— Handing over a few trucks of Imperial junk isn't a bad deal, — Wedge said meaningfully. — If this guy confirmed Rogue Squadron was among his captives, I wouldn't hesitate. The longer our people are in his dungeons, the more secrets might cease to be secrets, at least for this Imp.
— Except, as I understand, all captured Imperial equipment is either in use or scrapped? — General Solo remarked.
— Correct, — Ackbar confirmed. — Give him what he wants, and our battered forces will weaken further. But even then, we lack the means for exchange. His demand is simple—one Republican prisoner for one fighter. Or a ship, tank, or artillery piece with an equivalent crew. For example, thirty-seven thousand prisoners for one Imperial-class Star Destroyer. We're already short on armed ships to counter threats, so giving them back isn't feasible. That's for regular prisoners. High-ranking ones he trades only at a premium: one princess equals one destroyer. With about a dozen or more such captives, the exchange would gut our navy.
— Meanwhile, Thrawn and the Empire would bolster their forces and seize sectors, — Drayson said darkly. — Though there's a third option.
— Wow, — Antilles couldn't resist. — What's in that proposal?
— The third option spares our troops significant disarmament, — Ackbar said reluctantly. — But it weakens us drastically and strengthens Thrawn immensely. It's the least acceptable option. I've already ordered a relocation of the ship restoration site, as there's no guarantee it remains unknown to Imperials. Its discovery could prompt a direct threat from Thrawn and…
— Is he joking? — Antilles darkened. — This isn't negotiation; it's an ultimatum…
— Will someone explain what we're talking about? — General Solo grew agitated.
— I fear it's the most unattainable option, — Ackbar shook his large head. — Thrawn's willing to return all prisoners in exchange for the Lusankya. We can't return that starship to Imperials, as after losing Crimson Dawn, we have no chance of maintaining parity with Imperial Remnants' ships of that class.
A heavy silence fell…
— I'll say one thing, — Han Solo declared. — I wouldn't risk playing sabaac with this red-eyed Imp.
— I'll repeat once more, — Admiral Ackbar stated. — We're in a crisis.
— I'd put it far more precisely, — Han Solo sighed.