Dark Greetings (Star Wars Moff game)

[NonSequtur]

❂ Esteemed Diary, ❂

Once again I turn to you to record my memory in more substantial and reliable form, as I have for the past five years. Half a year has passed since my joining the Select Committee, and it has fallen upon me to decide whether to place my stamp upon the work of other men. The Supreme Commander and the Poet Laureate do not require my efforts, as Grand Moff I- H- P- the third gentleman is capable of drafting law, as the attached draft demonstrates. The form of the law is regular. The intent is inconsistent. To process the vast prisoners of the Supreme Commander's triumph is an exceptional situation, no basis to be the law of known space. And if the law were the law, why apply exceptions? It is testament to the Poet Laureate's good sense that no notion of heritability was allowed, but then heritability-in-species becomes grounds for the law. I feel my lack of understanding keenly, yet I am only one of twenty. Even if I were able, ought I sunder the efforts of two three Moffs who have been naught but diligent and loyal when my own capabilities were so recently in doubt?

It would be best, then, to introduce an alternative within the law. Instead of flesh and blood, duty and region. The region must be limited, otherwise this would reintroduce inconsistencies in the law. Of course limited seems to mean so much less these days.

Thoughtfully,
❂ Carlo ❂​

"Sir?" Carlo looks up. His secretary - quite possibly most valuable of his subordinates - looks at him with expectant worry. "The student initiative?" As demonstrated. He saves his diary and double checks that the updated draft had been sent to the relevant Moffs before stepping out from behind his desk.

"My thanks."

@Cornuthaum @TenfoldShields @dash931

Wilhemina - just call me Ina, please there's too many of us in this generation, haha - Sludjsis is still unsure what to make of the most powerful man in Seswenna (conditional on Vader having left Mustafar), even after working under him for months.

"Is something the matter?" he asks, a habit of his she is also still not used to, as they walk to the gymnasium which had been rented out lower in the building.

"No-" A raised eyebrow. "Sir, aren't preparations for the Games somewhat... secondary, at the moment?" What with the invading flesh-eating spiders. And the hole in Vandelhelm's orbital defences. And the assassinations. Ina is learning so many things she'd rather have not been aware of, except now she's scared of what she still doesn't know.

Grand Moff Vikal blinks, his face smooth save for a slight furrow in his brow. "Is there something I ought to be doing?" he asks, checking his datapad. The sincerity with which her boss doubts his memory is always jarringly inconsistent with his ability to recount statistics and law without reference. "All of the relevant orders seem to have been sent..."

"Sir," she interjects. "What if something happens?"

He looks at her, expression open. "I deal with it then," he replies. Like it's that simple to put it out of mind.

Ina chokes down a shriek. "Of course. Sir."

"For now, there isn't much more useful I can do," he explains, as is another one of his habits, pushing open the gymnasium doors. Within stand - or sit - the finest students of collegiate or post-graduate age in the New Order- Ina forgets the rest, all candidates for the fencing portion of the Games. If Grand Moff Vikal has a vice, it's surely overlong names for things. Or stabbing them with swords. "The fleet, the shipyards and foundries; they are the masters of their craft. My purpose is to direct and align, within and without." He pauses. "That reminds me."

He opens up his datapad and over his shoulder, Ina reads:

​

From: Grand Moff Carlo Vikal
To: Supreme Commander Clem Shacklemorr, Grand Moff Bif Krietten, Grand Moff Lorn Free Taa
@Wade Garrett @dash931 @bookwyrm
Attachments: Projected Rations and Prices Next Half-Cycle.hlxs, Sanfrasix-Sharlissia Defense Strategy.hlc

Dark greetings, warriors of the New Order,

I am not a military man, but I am at least aware that an army fights and a navy floats on its stomach, and every soldier walks on socks. See attached for subsidized production numbers to factor into your planning. Due to proximity to the hyperlane and the already significant burdens on OS17, Night Hammer Command will be forming a new group to hold the border planets of Sanfrasix and Sharlissia so as not to allow civilian death and/or refugee shocks as much as possible.

Simply,
Carlo Vikal
Grand Moff of Greater Seswenna, Night Hammer Command​

"And send," he says.

"ATTENTION!" She admits it. She jumps. "GRAND MOFF VIKAL HAS ARRIVED!" shouts some man in what Ina can now recognize as fencing gear.

"But here," the Grand Moff says, seamlessly continuing his train of thought from earlier before Ina can remember what they were talking about, "I am the master. So where else ought I be?" He raises his voice, thoughtlessly unselfconscious in a way Ina despairs of ever being. "His Majesty has asked that we show him the virtues of the New Order!" he shouts to the assembled students, now arranged. "Is the New Order found in muscle?!"

"NO. SIR."

"In blood?!"

"NO!"

"In tools?!"

"ABSOLUTELY NO, SIR!"

"NO!" he shouts, bright and glorious. "The New Order is what moves the muscle, what spills the blood and what wields the tools! Let it shine through you! Show the Emperor the truth of his Empire!"

He pauses for a moment, sword in hand, before turning to her. "Remind me to contact Grand Moff Polevas about the circumstances of my attendance," he says conversationally, before leaping at the student who'd stepped forward blade first.

Wilhemina Sludjsis is increasingly sure she is out of her depth.

@Mina

From: Grand Moff Carlo Vikal
To: Supreme Commander Clem Shacklemorr
@dash931
Attachments: Points of Concern, NW OS18.hlm, Persons Of Interest - Death Star.hlc

Dark greetings Supreme Commander,

I have found myself in a position of some difficulty after the incident at Vandelhelm. The Rebels are scattered, and I lack officers familiar with rapid pursuit in such chaos given Ravik's treason. As it is your present duty to deliver the ones responsible for the Death Star to the Emperor's justice, and knowing as I do that Han Solo was in my Oversector prior to the damage done to my intelligence assets, I might suggest that you or one of your trusted men take charge of operations in the north-west of Oversector 18. The Backfire Fleet will be present to support some operations.

Humbly,
Carlo Vikal
Grand Moff of Greater Seswenna, Night Hammer Command

~~~

From: Wilhemina Sludjsis, adjunct to Grand Moff Carlo Vikal
To: Backfire Fleet Command
CC: Grand Moff Carlo Vikal
Attachments: Dossier: Cossack Squadron.hlc

Accelerate the evacuation.​

 

[Maugan Ra]

Turn Three Start
Deadline - Saturday 27th April​

Rebel Operations

Oversector 3 "Steel Blade"

• The wholesale slaughter of protestors has cast a pall over the entire Oversector. Many knew friends and relatives who went to the protests and never came back, and displays of mourning are commonplace.
• Hundreds of imperial officials have been murdered by those seeking the hutt bounties on their heads. More concerningly, those who manage to kill an Imperial official are increasingly regarded as heroes by their communities.
• The name 'Korray' has become a curse word, and calls for the Grand Moff's death or removal from office now rise from every world. ISB is convinced that the oversector will see a significant uptick in attempted decapitation strikes in the near future.

Oversector 5 "Shadow Hand"

• With imperial officials being murdered in their homes, and their senior leadership seemingly unconcerned, morale in Shadow Hand has cratered. Garrisons have cut back on patrols, overseers are refusing to leave their headquarters, and border officials have implemented the most minimal of inspections.
• Guards at one of the new archaeological digs have been found dead, their bodies bearing wounds consistent with a lightsaber.

Oversector 12 "Cerulean Spear"

• With assassins running rampant and a considerable proportion of the oversector military engaged in the Mon Cala campaign, the remaining garrisons and security forces in Cerulean Spear are increasingly slow and near-paralysed. It does not help that Grand Admiral Grugner approved numerous transfer requests to his own forces as he pulled out.

Oversector 13 "Iron Lance"

• The Rebel attacks on military forces and installations across the Oversector have badly shaken confidence in the Imperial Military. Recruitment is down by close to a third, and troop morale is becoming a problem.

Oversector 14 "Red Tails"

• Rumours are spreading like wildfire that famed resistance fighter Cham Syndulla has reappeared on Ryloth. Curiously, reports indicate that his first appearance was at a memorial for Quorn Scee Taa, who he proclaimed a grim example of what the Empire truly thinks of Ryloth and her people.

Oversector 17 "Chrome Shield"

• Local criminals and seditious elements appear to have focused their ire on the most highly ranked of Chrome Shield's commanders, successfully killing a number of generals and planetary governors. Rumours suggest there are active competitions and betting rings in place, and that some are going so far as to add the newly arrived Darth Vader to the lists.

Oversector 18 "Night Hammer"

• The Millennium Falcon has been spotted several more times since the chaos at Vandalhelm, always escorted by rebel X-wings, in a variety of different systems. It seems increasingly apparent that the Alliance has established an elaborate smuggling network across the oversector, incorporating an increasing proportion of the criminal element who need ways around the Grand Moff's more restrictive rules.
• Disturbing evidence has arisen that many of the officers, garrison commanders and other officials killed by those seeking hutt bounties in Night Hammer command may have been murdered by their own subordinates or professional rivals. An atmosphere of paranoia is spreading fast.

Spoiler: Oversector Stats

Oversector 1 - Azure Hammer @Palima Polevas [OS1]

• Control: 5
• Unrest: 4
• Favour: 9

Oversector 2 - Green Mantle @Liburnian Shrike [OS2]

• Control: 3
• Unrest: 3
• Favour: 5

Oversector 3 - Steel Blade @Grand Moff Vitiion Korray

• Control: 1
• Unrest: 6
• Favour: 3

Oversector 4 - White Cuirass @Praji-Kuat [OS4]

• Control: 5
• Unrest: 1
• Favour: 4

Oversector 5 - Shadow Hand @Grand Moff Zaviya-ten-Krif [OS5]

• Control: 1
• Unrest: 4
• Favour: 2

Oversector 6 - Black Sword Grand Moff Bertroff Hissa (NPC)

• Control: N/A
• Unrest: N/A
• Favour: N/A

Oversector 7 - Golden Nyss @Inderion Hargrad [OS07]

• Control: 3
• Unrest: 1
• Favour: 4

Oversector 8 - Bright Jewel @GRAND MOFF MURSWUNGLE SPLOTT

• Control: 2
• Unrest: 1
• Favour: 5

Oversector 9 - Brazen Petard - Grand Moff Rufaan Tigellinus (NPC)

• Control: N/A
• Unrest: N/A

Oversectors 10 and 11 - Crimson Dagger and Blazing Claw @Dekutula [OS10, OS11]

• Control: 2
• Unrest: 3
• Favour: 2

Oversector 12 - Cerulean Spear @Tradum Gavax [OS12]

• Control: 2
• Unrest: 6
• Favour: 4

Oversector 13 - Iron Lance @Conil - Shacklemorr [OS13]

• Control: 2
• Unrest: 5
• Favour: 6

Oversector 14 - Red Tails @Lorn Vree Taa (OS 14)

• Control: 4
• Unrest: 2
• Favour: 3

Oversector 15 - Hook Nebula Ravik, Prophet of the Void

• Control: N/A
• Unrest: N/A

Oversector 16 - Ivory Fang @Grand Moff Byurroq-Raht [OS 16]

• Control: 3
• Unrest: 4
• Favour: 5

Oversector 17 - Chrome Shield @Bif Krietten

• Control: 4
• Unrest: 3
• Favour: 2

Oversector 18: Night Hammer @Carlo Vikal [OS18]

• Control: 2
• Unrest: 2
• Favour: 6

Oversector 19: Dark Saber @Vicious Malorux [OS19]

• Control: 4
• Unrest 3
• Favour: 3

Oversector 20: Emerald Banner @Byg Fauma [OS20]

• Control: 3
• Unrest 3
• Favour: 3

 

[Gargulec]

location unknown

Something finally gives, and blood gushes from the walls of the Torch. In rapid streams, it rushes to the floor, turning the room into a red-tinted pool with Zaviya in the middle. The Grand Moff watches it rise dispassionately; the tide was long overdue to rise. Oh, no, it had been rising for years now, ever since the false millenium of peace broke under the boot of the Grand Army of the Republic, ever since a single command doomed an entire world to oblivion, ever since Zaviya's peers chose to turn the Galaxy into a playground of atrocity. And so she cannot even bring herself to feel surprise when the red floods over her, and all the lights grow dim; the last thought before she drowns is...

"PLEA: Mistress, breathe."

Zaviya blinks, the rushing hiss in her ears no longer the crimson ocean, but rather a stream of chemicals pouring straight into her veins. She is back in her study, kneeling in front of the strobing light of her galaxy map. For a moment, she can almost see where at its heart there is a source of all that death about to open for flood, but no, those are just reports, little red dots of warning. Here, refugees. There, slaughter. Somewhere else, a mad warlord declaring war on life. The History continues to turn, as is its wont, and Zaviya's stomach is a tight knot.

The map flickers; the view of the galaxy replaced with the zoomed-in image of her oversector, painted flame orange and brick red. Every planet is a flashpoint; her officers are begging for help and dying in droves. Discontent rules the streets. Somewhere to the side, missives of concern from other forces in the Galaxy appear in a long list. Blearily, she sweeps her arm in an arc, and dismisses it all, until the map is a clean slate, all serene whites and blues of the Core swirling in the timeless peace of the cosmos. Serenity, at long last; but not for Zaviya. There are problems she cannot brush aside as easily, and they lie arranged in a circle around the holo-projector.

Small pieces of crystal, alight with an inner glow, blue, sometimes red. Each of them, she had to wrench from living flesh of the Galaxy, rip free as if an organ out of a body; each of them came with a price in hundreds of lives, in dozens of acts of desecration, in shattered tombs, erased shrines, violated sanctuaries. And each of them remains mute. She knows what they are, those ensouled holocrons, and she knows why they refuse her; an accident of birth meant that she was ushered into the galaxy as a object, not a subject.

"OBSERVATION: Mistress, your vitals are unstable. Please, calm down."

But 0R8 is wrong. It is not rage that Zaviya feels. That would be too simple. It runs deeper and colder. Stifling a whining shout, she looks past the jewels of the Force, and onto the piles of ancient texts, tablets, codices. So many of them useless, so many of them still containing shreds of true knowledge she is yet to master. But master it she shall, and then she will master everything else. The map changes once more, and instead of a stellar vista, it offers her a rotating view of the Torch, in all of its jagged glory.

She watches it for a while, ignoring the budding headache. The shape of the ship are wrong, she knows as much; it does not match anything in the archives she can access. It does not resemble any vessel known to be in production. But it is real, and in moments like that, she can almost imagine what else it can become-

-and then the gap between almost and certainly snaps close with a soundless boom, and for one glorious moment, there is clarity, sharp as a knife-

"WARNING: Mistress, your vitals!"

"Shut up!" Zaviya rips herself up, her tired body no longer able to protest the mad will. "Command the ship to the drydock! And bring me- bring me- bring me-"

Her voice trails off, and she hears herself as if speaking from under a great, red tide. In a moment, medical officers will rush into her office to take her to the womb-like niche of the Torch for the sickbay to close its cold hands around her and cradle her into a restful sleep. But that is in a moment, and in the now, there is a vision of great stepped temples, and the purpose they were meant to fulfil.

Before she collapses, Zaviya sees the way of the knife, and grasps at it with desperate resolve.

 

[Havocfett]

Six hours ago, Grand Moff Ravik declared war on all thinking life in the galaxy, and Murswungle Splott the First is having a beautiful day.

He had rolled out of bed on a cushion of kind-feeling towards all sentient life, waddling through the halls at an art curator explaind all the new pieces to him. Murswungle the Second had been up before him and had decorated the halls with a variety of his latest art pieces, all stark, brutalist things in the style of that Praji lad his son admired so. They were rather lovely, if a bit joyless, and the boy had clearly improved since college. And he'd excelled in managing Palpatine's visit, even if he had demurred from the internal tour.

With his son's success in mind, Murswungle Splott waddled up to a three course breakfast, the first in years that had the entire Splott family in attendance. Little Murswungle the Third was viciously attacking a whaladon steak, though his father and mother looked a little queasy as they watched. Both of their plates were decidedly vegetarian, to Splott's mild disappointment. He'd hoped that all of his children would inherit his constitution and dedication to the cause, but Murswungle the Second tried his best, he supposed.

Perfaniva had some clueless young thing on her arm and was munching away happily. Rursmurler looked vaguely sullen but was eating his meal with gusto-Murswungle imagined he'd pieced together the truth of his admissions. And, of course, darling, beloved, inestimably beautiful Gervury Splott-Num was waiting patiently by his seat, prodding at a piece of leatherwork while waiting for him to arrive.

He pulled himself up onto his chair, kissed his beloved wife, and dug in. The meal was pleasant. Perfaniva's current fling evidently had a name. Rursmurler had decided to go to officer school rather than one of the universities he'd gotten into. A disappointment: He'd hoped to have one child continue the family business. Still, he could find a medically inclined spouse for Perfaniva or Rursmurler, so he didn't let it get him down.

Breakfast finished with an exchange of gifts. A biology set for his first grandson, a top-line protocol droid for Perfaniva, a blaster for Rursmurler, and a trio of domestics apiece for Murswungle the Second and his wife. Then, on to work.

A new chief medical officer delivered the Lab report to his office. He inquired after the man's health, only to learn that he'd merely thrown himself out of an airlock. The third doctor in a week to do so.

Disappointing. He tried to have faith in his medical staff, he really dead. They were consummate professionals and very skilled at their jobs. They just didn't have the faith in their work the position required. So few did, these days.

He supposed, idly, that Polevas was right. He didn't like to admit it, but the modern crop of physicians simply didn't have it in them to push the galaxy forwards. He disliked Polevas' solution-it seemed cheating, in a way. An admission that they'd never be good enough, and so they'd resort to engineered means instead of training doctors ready for the field.

But the constant string of suicides really just took the shine off a good day. He'd have to at least experiment with the concept.

He penned a swift order. A trial run, of sorts, with a limited number of doctors and everyone assigned to Polevas' little project. Just to see if it would be worth pursuing. Then, he turned his attention to the next aide. Some bore of an officer with a summary of the Ravik situation, some awkward embarassment he'd need to find excuses to ignore, no doubt.

The office, visibly perturbed, stepped into the office and delivered his report. A repeat of the Trachta affair, really. Madness, treason, attempted rebellion, death of all life, spiders-

Spiders?

Murswungle asked for explanation. Then again. Then again. Eventually, he had his schedule cleared and demanded a full briefing on the nature of the Charon.

He went to bed late that night. And when he did, he was beaming.

Poor, stupid Ravik had failed in his apotheosis, yet proved his worth nonetheless. He'd delivered something truly wonderful for Splott to reach out and take. A veritable cornucopia of biological curiosity. And, most importantly of all, he had given Murswungle Splott an idea.

 

[NonSequtur]

Aaris III no longer glimmers beneath its sun. It was once a planet of ruins and jungles, off any known hyperlane and barely on any map. Unlike some other planets in the south where the Emperor had a personal interest, or planets with populations still present to pose legal challenge, Aaris III as far as anybody knew, meant nothing. Had nobody. A perfect prototype.

It has become difficult to see. Like a marble dipped in ink. No. Darker. Darker and darker yet, Aaris III has grown. Like a patch of starless space itself it hurtles along its ancient course, oceans choked with algae, continents strangled with plastic vines and dark fungal forests that turn every quantum of sun into biology. Agricorps ships touching down on barren mountain peaks and polar stations to receive the endless influx of automated deliveries of plant matter at the only ports not overgrown. Every gram made dense with organic compounds too complex - too efficient, too perfectly nutritious yet utterly inedible to most known species - to be anything but artificial. But whose artifice? The compounds are so complex that merely making use of them demanded processing in vast Agricorps facilities located nearer to populated areas: designing them would be an order of magnitude more involved. Yet designed they had been, and processed they were. Food, of course, was the priority. Clothes and other polymers as well. Industrial oils, lubricants, or feedstock for any surplus to requirements. Fuel was a waste in a galaxy of hydrogen cells and solar panels, but certainly possible. Even construction materials, though metals were difficult to beat in most applications and cheaply found in stellar debris. But experiments were ongoing.

Such a bounty always found uses to justify itself. The darkness the droids and flying harvesters dredged seemed like it could contain anything, and even from a single planet there was so very much to dredge. More and more, with the immense tide of waste - biological or otherwise - that was rerouted to burn up in the atmosphere or crash into inky waters for recycling. Even a lost drone harvester was less a loss and more... a premature iron supplement.

Out in the black, everything eats.

GRAND MOFF CARLO VIKAL ANNOUNCES
Unnamed 'Evacuate Immediately' Law, due to urgency of threat from Hook Nebula
Orbital Defense Improvement Order and Unlimited Support for Refugees of Hook Nebula
Student Athletes for the Victim's Exhibition
Breadbasket Agricultural Directive​

 

[Potato Anarchy]

Under Grand Moff Shrike's aegis, Green Mantle saw a great flowering of influential, often violent, avowedly imperialist "policlubs" that ran the gamut from barely disguised criminal syndicates to aggressively rebranded noble fraternities, with a wide array of business hustles, media enterprises, and other political entrepreneurs bouncing around in between. The four most famous and successful at the start were the grim Blood of Imperial Duros, the ambitious Calamity, the anarchic Corellian Balladeers, and the dazzling Daughters of Order & Empire.

The Blood of Imperial Duros (The BID)
Type: Martial Arts Fellowship / Business Conglomerate / Paramilitary Settlement Network
Motto: "One Blood, One Empire, One Path Forward"
Make Neimodians Duros Again

A "self-discipline movement" that emerged as set of Duros martial arts societies doing charity and emergency relief work during the latter days of the Republic, and first gained infamy as anti-CIS partisans with particular hatred for Neimodean corporate interests. The Blood of Duros saw itself from the beginning as fellow travelers with the founders of COMPNOR and the New Order, focused on a vitalist vision of species-rejuvenation demanding not just their signature physical exercises, eating restrictions, and political change but also the curing of the "Neimodean meme-gene complex." The destruction of "self-hating alt-Duros ideologies" required not just the defeat of Neimodean socioeconomic cliques and the recruitment of their children, but ultimately Duros settlement programs, intermarriage, and medical therapies to reverse the ancient split between their peoples without any of the detritus of so-called Neimodean "civilization."

But between bad luck, their allies in the Empire losing key early power struggles, and their unseemly focus on the legacy of an important non-human species in galactic history, the Blood of Duros struggled to grow their influence after the end of the Clone Wars lost them their battlefield glory. They persisted on the edge of politics, changing their name to emphasize their loyalty and developing a labyrinthine business wing to fund their own operations and training camps. In Shrike the BID finally found the high-level champion inside of the New Order they'd lacked since the end of the war and the crumpling of Imperial Army influence, or at least a patron sufficiently unbothered by their fixations that he would enable them as long as they also bludgeoned and bloodied his enemies.

Visible in street clashes across Oversector 2 and having assaulted more than a few criminal outposts on their own, the Blood are far from a majority of the policlub coalition's forces but serve as the largest and most brutally effective paramilitary operating under a single banner, with an extensive merchant marine and small stores of heavy equipment none of their peers can match. The BID have significantly stepped up their construction of new settlements on Neimodean worlds within the oversector, flush with new arms and political cover from which to push back on their rivals. An old associated org, the Anti-Secessionist History Institute, is overflowing with grants and has been pumping out media specials about the Blood's role in fighting the CIS while fighting to secure them moments of spotlight in the rest of Shrike's "museum campaign." They plan to build a museum of their own in one of the new settlements, a natural hub for the BID's large population of semi-pro clone war re-enactors. But their most cherished project is just starting to come into view: gaining enough favor with Shrike to make one of their own a sector moff over Neimodean and Duros worlds.

Despite Shrike's patronage, the BID are notably inspired by Grand Moff Taa, another martial nonhuman with similar preoccupations, and often wish Shrike was more like any of the more military moffs. But after their time in the political wilderness they're humbled and pragmatic. Any moff who will advance their agenda is a good moff.

Calamity / The Calamatists
Type: Social Movement / Artistic Tendency / Youth Political Network / Stochastic Paramilitary Media Contagion
Motto: "True Order Demands Destruction"
This is a new combo move I've been working on, think it'll really leverage my cyberlegs and my sword training to a higher synergy. This is the kind of innovation the Empire needs to thrive. Glory to the disruptors!

Calamity is, by contrast, quite new, and often fairly young. They are a network of bloody performance artists and snuff-zine samizdat, working in and around imperial media channels to spread ever further their secular and feverish worship of everything fast, new, violent, transformative, rational, and chrome. They love what is shocking and strange and sudden about the Empire and lament the stasis that lies in between those moments of calamitous change. They like to study that process by creating little local calamities of their own, sabotaging and attacking outsiders and criminals as social experiments that double as propaganda of the deed. A developed habit of crowdfunding each other's thirst for cyberware, droid assistants, and other metallic, reliable enhancements has helped them survive and win the endless fights they pick in pursuit of their dreams.

On a more structural level, Calamity is a response to the epistemological chaos of the transition from Old Republic to Empire, and just as keenly to the angst of ambitious young imperialists coming up against a system dominated by well-connected old people. They always seem one month away from actively purging imperial officials who offend them too badly, though so far their leash hasn't slipped in that regard. Instead they restrict that side of their wrath to angry film projects and satirical poetry while taking out their violent impulses on more politically valid targets. They've escalated from criminals and "Hutt collaborators" to parts of society simply out of favor with COMPNOR. Public criticism sessions and politicized vandalism are increasingly large parts of their repertoire.

Many Calamatists are students, low-level state employees, or media professionals. They often project greater ideological coherence and passion onto Shrike then he really has, and are especially invested in the operatic politics of Grand Moffs in general. Their favorites are bright younger men with big plans and systemic sweep like Vikal and Praji-Kuat, and most science-coded moffs win at least a little interest. Many are also drawn to Firebrand military doctrine and those associated. (Calamitist circles have had several vicious fights over both the "Praji-Kuat is a trianglecuck v. Praji-Kuat is a brave imperial hero in this house" debate and over Shacklemorr's stunning betrayal of the promise of the Firebrands.) Surprising, and internally controversial, is the enduring interest of certain Calamatists in the bland but totalizing vision of Byurroq-Raht.

Corellian Balladeers
Type: Musical Subgenre / Streetfighting Hooligan Federation / Studio Franchising Pyramid-Extortion Scheme
Motto: "Not In My Empire"
This ballad is dedicated to everyone who ever picked me last in gym class and to all the stupid motherfuckers who crossed my path like Rike before Pico. I know my people hear me. Woe to those who doubt the turning of the stars! Woe to those who forget the past! Woe, and hear my song!

By sheer manpower and prevalence, the strong majority of Shrike's pet policlubs are just some guys - a cluster of hotheads and thugs mobilized by some shared leader or fragment of an institution, intoxicated by the rush of direct action and implicit sanction. A gang inside a planetary defense unit, a group of drinking buddies with a wannabe demagogue, a small business association with delusions of grandeur. Most obsess over factional politics and acclaim in their local corner of a corner of a sector of the oversector, never amounting to more than a molecule in a wave. There's one group, though, that has been scooping up other parts of this subculture and tying them together into a greater whole - the Corellian Balladeers.

The Balladeers emerged from the streets of Corellia proper, where cultural programs made available to street kids to make them aware of their "honorable heritage" meant that a bunch of young criminals were also surprisingly fluent in the artistic forms and references of classical Corellian music. A loose musical scene emerged, dedicated to sneaking brags about their criminal exploits (real or simply plausible) into performances that would make it past imperial censors and onto the net. In another universe where Shrike's predecessor didn't die, they might have just floated along like that and slowly died out. Instead, Shrike showed up and for a few months imperial security holed up in their strongholds, and a girl named Holessia Wake published a ballad that was very obviously about her killing a Hutt, and it made her and her tiny Starship Row Records studio a fuckton of money.

Now Corellian ballads are everywhere, bragging in ancient verse about what fate befalls those who cross the Empire, or the balladeer on a bad day. The original Corellian gangsters and street urchins have turned it into a cartel, demanding payments for artistic mentorship and studio franchising rights. The studio network works as a loose federation for profit sharing and conflict resolution between different "stables" of balladeers that now include everything from speeder dealer salesmen and slumming sector nobles to farmboys and schoolgirls, united chiefly by violence, chutzpah, and enough brio to make their music interesting even when it's not that good. All inevitably maintain entourages, often collected from duller local policlubs, and roll with them right into the latest and greatest opportunities for dramatic political violence. The arts establishment on Corellia is baffled and a little disturbed, but optimistic and flush with new grants from Shrike. Balladeers with ambition often aspire to imitate Praji-Kuat's art or incorporate Calamatist flair into their work, but don't actually share that many of his interests. Much more their speed is Bif Krietten, who stars in more ballads than any other moff save Shrike. Otherwise they're not often interested in high imperial politics other than an enduring obsession with Vader and vague good regard for those who've fought the Hutts "like we have."

The Daughters of Order & Empire (DOE)
Type: Private Sorority / Social Club / Direct Action Thrill Gang
Motto: "Sisters and Legacies"
This week's hot new accessory is a vintage DC-15A blaster rifle from the Clone Wars - don't show up without one!

The DOE was founded as a private sorority and social club exclusive to the children of veterans of the Clone Wars, not especially unusual by the standards of Green Mantle's age-old institutions of privilege. Sure, their internal rituals were especially elaborate, and they maintained an unusually martial aspect for a group that otherwise thrived on glamour and pomp, but such things were hardly unheard of. Given a few decades to cook, they slowly grew more intense as they spread across the Oversector, piling up internal titles and lifelong connections forged in mutual transgression and support, their parties moving from simple hedonism to duels, hunts, and increasingly elaborate "games." Now, under the guidance of a new Executive Director, they've uncorked their heady vintage of unchecked privilege to a broader array of new initiates - no more need for the correct parentage if you can keep up and beat the legacies at both slink and snipe.

They wield all the usual weapons of high society mavens with ease - fashion and charity, press and whispers, all the classics - while also expecting their members to be discreetly capable with blaster and vibrosword without taking off any layers or heels. Most are socialites and/or "professionally spouses," though they enthusiastically support the minority who are clawing their way up through the blunter organs of empire (mostly in the Navy or the ISB, though they've always had connections to their local planetary forces). They tend to keep their public actions charming and irreproachable and save the violence for private, subtler in their approaches than the other policlubs, but that just feeds the manic energy of what's hidden. After one of their chapter heads married one of Shrike's least favorite CEOs, he was irritated, and they responded by inviting him to an initiation ball where he got to watch twelve debutantes in ballgowns fieldstrip vintage rifles before heading into an abandoned apartment-block shoothouse to chase down criminals on loan from a nearby prison. They have been consistently among his favorites ever since.

Specific ideology is not really the DOE's bag so much as a sort of swaggery privileged pragmatism, though they proclaim a dedication to the New Order that seems somewhat earnest. DOEs want trophies like "marrying a moff" or "becoming the next Palima" (or both - the OS1 grand moff is an obsession for most of them), not societal transformation. It's individual officer-ritualists of the sorority - whether wandering Eyes with topical portfolios or regional Tails managing chapters - who pull their sisters together into schemes and maneuvers.

 

[EarthScorpion]

Sitting there behind his desk, Grand Moff Inderion Hargrad lets his head sink into his hands. Truly the weight of history is upon him. So many responsibilities. So many duties. The life of a Grand Moff is hard indeed, and full of suffering and burdens. The masses do not understand the crushing pressure on the role.

For example, he has just found out he's expected to attend a formal dinner on Coruscant with his wife.

Inderion Hargrad has been happily marrired for nine years. Unfortunately, he has been married for twenty-two years, and while him and Gulalay would really prefer to have divorced a decade ago, it wouldn't have looked good for either of their careers. The New Order needs children, after all, and it needs the people standing near to the top to be reputable, honest, hard-working, and moral exemplars. Thus, the two of them have a mutual agreement to never see each other by choice, be icily polite to one another when obliged to appear as a couple, and to keep their respective mistresses, toyboys, and side pieces out of the public eye. He once asked Splott in an unguarded moment how he gets on with his wife, and apparently it's a thing of "mutual interests" which doesn't make any sense to him.

While he laments his misery, his secretary buzzes him.

"Your daughter is here."

"Which one?" he asks, dreading the news.

"Oduvia," begins the secretary, before there's the sound of a scuffle.

"Daddy! I'm coming in! You don't have a meeting!"

"I do-" he begins to lie.

"No, not anymore, I'm more important!" and then his door bangs open.

Oduvia is his second favourite legitimate daughter, a mark of respect only somewhat diminshed by the fact that winning second place in a contest of two is no great achievement. "Daddy! Let me coach the Golden Nyss team!" she immediately demands, without even some mild conversation about the weather or feigning interest in his health.

"What are you talking ab-"

She sighs, extravagently. She gets it from her mother, along with the long platinum hair and a face shaped like a Korfean riding-beast. "I will be heading up the team going to the Imperial Games. I'll whip them into shape, I'll tell you what!"

"You want to be an athlete?"

"No, daddy, I'm going to be the coach. And also a star athlete!" She rests her hand on her duelling sword. "But most of all, I can't have you letting down the Empire by sending some indifferently talented wretches to Coruscant! Honestly, what would you do without me?"

Inderion perks up slightly. Oh, his daughter brags about her skill with the duelling blade, but maybe if she's humiliated in front of an audience he might get some peace and quiet. And of course, if he lets her coach the team, she can use that wretched obnoxious set of SAGroup badges and achievements and junior commandant qualifications she's so proud of to good use. And just as importantly, she'll be distracted for at least a few months and won't bother him.

So when it comes to it, there really is nothing to lose by putting his useless, inept daughter in charge of the delegation, where she can do almost no harm and he won't have to put up with her trying to swing his authority for whatever her current pet project is. If this was Karla, then things would be different because Oduvia might be her mother's favourite but Karla is his and she'd be wasted on something this petty. But for this-

"You're quite right, my dear," he says, and makes the arrangements before pouring himself some brandy. He deserves something nice for himself. More than just telling Gulalay what nonsense their daughter has gotten in her head this time.

 

[TenfoldShields]

In his position as Chief Executive of Kuat Drive Yards (and notably not as a Grand Moff, who could not legally act in a neighbouring oversector without Imperial approval), Alexandraghst Praji-Kuat led the charge on the new initiative with a personal visit to the Kashyyk system, and more specifically to the world of Trandosha. In a closed-door meeting with the Trandoshan Clan Council Praji-Kuat laid out his vision, and to the tune of a truly staggering degree of investment in the planet - new factories and shipyards, new educational programs, natural rejuvenation projects and expanded repair budgets, and of course the real treasure - enough of KDY's back catalogue sold at markdown prices to cement Trandosha as a regional military power in its own right.

For their part, the Trandoshans were only too happy to pledge themselves to Praji-Kuat's cause and his grand vision for the future. A solid majority of all Trandoshan bounty hunters registered themselves with the new regional Hunter's Guild in the following months, and when the Grand Moff travelled with a band of their hunters to seal their new alliance in the blood of wookies, it was the famed Bossk who rode at his side and helped him smoke out the prey.

Click to shrink...

Kashyyyk, Oversector 12/Cerulean Spear

Kashyyyk was beautiful as it burned. The blaze was ten, fifteen kilometers away, curling along one flank of the river basin and he could still feel it even at that distance. Feel the heat on his face as it displaced the humidity. Feel the hot wind flowing down the slopes in a ceaseless tide; a great mass of oily air rushing through the jungle setting boulevard broad branches swaying and creaking, leaves rustling. A green ocean whipped up into chaos and fury. His tanned skin was slick with perspiration. The long, dark ringlets and curls of his hair hung lank beneath his peaked cap. His poncho steamed, silvery streams of fog peeling away from the rainsoaked, sweat-drenched Army uniform underneath. Leeching out of the green-brown-grey fabric in tendrils and ragged wisps. He'd drunk at least a liter of water in the last hour and still his lips were starting to crack, still the inside of his mouth felt cottony dry. The thought delighted him in some abstruse way. He is really here in this moment. In this place. It was all real. It was all happening now.

The flames rose and swayed and entwined in great, twisted columns; bleeding and blending into each other. They were lurid things; feverdream lush with color, hues so vivid they were almost artificial. More like neon signs and hologram advertisements, spilled paint and and sugary soft drinks, than the fruit of Imperial incendiaries. As he watched they seemed to heave and recede as one, up now to the jagged, dark rock ridge with its mossy crown. Licking at the spine of the mountains, kissing the stony slopes with ash. Down now, pouring through the underbrush ten, fifty, a hundred meters or more below the tree line. Tangerine orange and sour cherry red, sunny lemon yellow and that artificial berry blue. Raging rivers of chemical fire forking and dividing, coming together and blooming once more. The floodplain at the bottom of the basin held the hellish glow, the surface radiant with the force of this false sunrise. This terrible new dawn. Flocks of avians and arthropods were on the wing, crying and cawing and chittering and calling as they swept ahead of the flood, as they rose up wheeling on the thermals. Packs of primates moved between the branches, a panicked stampede. Slower, tragically slower, silhouetted by the inferno so close at their heels. Black smoke rose in an unbroken wall behind it all, wreathing the sun in a ragged veil. The system's star now a wan, pale gold disk.

Thunderheads were gathering again. It was going to rain soon.

He turned from the horizon as it was swallowed in scarlet. Put his back to the carved wroshyr railing, resting his gloved hands on the polished timbers. Tilting his head to stare up at the sky. Far above the fluted, arrowhead shapes of Venators moved silently between the clouds. Hulls the grey-white of lunar regolith. The ghosts of old wars, risen to kill again. On the near ridge, overlooking the village and opposite the burning jungle: a walker column braced itself on soft soil and crumbling stone. The behemoth armatures of AT-AT's, now at rest; the stooped, slender shapes of AT-ST's underfoot, picking their way down into the basin, bobbing and moving like groundbound raptors. A Juggernaut convoy parked in a crooked, uneven line behind them, above them. Their enormous wheels biting deep into the black earth. Flames and formation coming together to seal off the mouth of the wide, sloping valley. Further in it, he knew, hills and bluffs gave way to cliffs and high crags. Gorges and sheer-sized canyons compacting, convoluting, until they formed a fractured maze. Reaching all the way back into the distant mountain range. Wound through with vines the size of power couplings. Venous root complexes like sewer mains.

They had fled in there, some of them, this town's young and it's old. When the TIE/sa's had plunged through the cloud-cover, bomb bays already cycling open. When the jungle caught alight in stutter-flashes, orange glow shining off the bellies of descending LAAT/le gunships. There had been some alarm sounding deep within the town, their ramshackle fluttercraft rising up to meet the intruders. The first and last line of meaningful defense. They needn't have bothered. It was like Bossk said when he asked, half apprehensive, if the hunting party meant to pursue that ragged column. The Trandoshan's shrug equal parts practicality and practiced indifference.

"<Gotta let the population maintain itself. Else in ten, twenty years our nieces and nephews won't have skins for themselves.>"

Alexandraghast turned that over again in his head now. Cold, to be sure, but there was something admirable in that too he decided. A measure of restraint, a disciplining of desire, all mixed in with a profound sense of community, of solidarity. A good choice, he reminded himself, I've made a good choice. A good choice in allies. A good choice in proxies.

A good choice in friends, if you'd like.

All around him they labored; tall, scaled bodies loping, slouching past, needle teeth in saurian jaws glinting as they talked to each other in their hissing, piping tongue, their slit-pupiled eyes almost optic-bright. All so alien and yet so recognizably workmanlike in their toil; unselfconscious perhaps, unprepossessing. It was such a joy to watch them move. A joy to take in the simple pleasure of hard work done well. They cleaned out the settlement together in two's and three's, teams pulling Wookie carcasses from behind improvised barricades, from camouflaged blinds, from within their round dwellings. Dragging them along wroshyr-and-vine walkways. Dropping them one by one in heavy heaps of gore-matted fur in the town square a couple dozen paces away. A line of bodies, stretching from one end of the square to the next. Red, wet trails snaked throughout the settlement. Drying to a tacky, tarry crust as bands of sunlight swept the treetop village, chased by cloud cover and the caul of still-distant smoke.

Flies buzzed thickly, the air was heavy with the scent of copper and the pungent reek of dead Wookie. Thick enough he could feel it coating his tongue. He took a sip from his canteen and swished it around his mouth. He spat over the railing.

"<How are you feeling?>" The voice came low, pitched for privacy. A familiar rasp, a half-smothered snarl all but in his ear. The Trandoshan in blue and grey armor lifted his jaw as Alexandraghast caught his eye, his stare ever-so-slightly deferential (just barely enough for decency) but still so beautifully stubborn. The Grand Moff smiled wryly.

"Glad I didn't eat much this morning, but it's not too bad."

"<You're doing good Alex.>"

"I still don't think I actually even shot one Aorosok. That poor pilot, he was holding the gunship as steady as he could, but I couldn't aim for shit."

"<You winged one. Bossk,>" and here a note of unconscious awe in that voice, a flick of the eyes away from the human and towards the figure in the weathered yellow environment suit in the distance, as if to confirm he was still there, that he too was real, "<Waited until he saw the hit to drop it. And the others- they saw it too. You came here, made an effort and that matters. You're doing good.>"

Alexandraghast opened his mouth, to protest, to make light, the corner of his mouth already quirked up in the start of a smirk, a haughty sneer. Well I suppose sport shooting on spice counts as some kind of conditioning. He stopped himself. Closed his mouth, closed his eyes, and sighed. "...Thank you," he said instead, after a moment. "It's good to know I'm not making a complete dog's breakfast of things. The reassurance is appreciated."

A wet clicking sound deep in the throat, somewhere between amused and exasperated. "<'Reassurance'.'It's been half a week and most of them would already die for you, all of them would kill for you. What else would you call that? It's only the truth.>"

"Only the truth," Alexandraghast echoed and did his very best to believe it.

Aorosok glanced at the town square and then back over his principal's shoulder. "<We've got about an hour before that fire gets here. Should start getting the bodies loaded up. Ready to pick out your skin?>"

And the Grand Moff couldn't help but laugh at that, bright and clear. A smile so wide and so sharp it could lay open a man's chest, carve into his beating heart, without him feeling a thing. "Cold hulls love, do you have to say it like that? Yes, alright alright, as long as nobody expects me to peel it myself. We'll be here til we burn up then."

He pushed himself off the railing and the whole tableaux moved with him, the entire scene re-ordering as the center of gravity shifted. Captain Aorosok Ashhk and the rest of the Meridian company falling in around the Grand Moff. Their composite and ceramic armor blue and mottled-grey, faceless helms fit to horned scalps and saurian jaws, azure cloaks billowing magnificently behind them. Their cousins, the hunters from the Clan Council and the Bounty Liaison Board, in all their motley finery, all their arms and armor and wilderness gear, swirling back; deferentially clearing the path, wiping blood from their hands, lighting cigarras. And at his heels, as ever, as always, his shadows. A quartet of black-armored Death Troopers, all onyx and obsidian in their armor. Like perfect cut outs in the riotous, wild color of the jungle world; a silhouette more than a shape.

As one they approached the line of corpses. As one they moved down the row, silently inspecting the dead. A stroll down the aisle with shopping cart in tow, a trip to the market with the whole gang.

The Grand Moff stopped. His guard detail stopped. The watching hunters stilled. Bossk, cigarra burning, stepped from the crowd to stand beside the human and together they stared down at the dead Wookie. Even for the species this one was a brute, two and a half meters tall easy with clawed hands that hung almost down to his knees, and Alexandraghast thought it appropriate, perhaps, that he'd managed to clip the very largest target here. There, the seared wound of a blaster bolt on the upper arm. Almost lost in the dense tangle of brown-black fur. There, in the dead center of the chest, Bossk's own neat, precise shot. Coring out the Wookie's heart.

"...I know him," the words were offhanded, absent, and Alexandraghast found himself surprised to have said them at all. He cocked his head, as if trying to recall a few bars of a song he just barely remembered.

"<Oh?>" Bossk asked, squatting down beside the corpse. Reaching up to right the lolling head, close the slack and already rigor-stiffening jaw. "<Didn't figure you had a lot of Wookies on Kuat.>"

They didn't. There wasn't. So where- so where…Alexandraghast covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. Rifling through a vast (vast, unfathomably vast) archive of names and faces and titles and connections. It wouldn't have been in college, by the time he was attending the University of Coruscant Kashyyyk was already under Imperial interdiction. And it's unlikely it would have been after, seeing one of the beasts free in the galaxy had fast become a rarity. Before then? Not on Kuat. Not on Humbarine, before it burned. And the Wookies didn't usually leave their home system, except for their diplomatic presence at the Capital. So…

It all came back at once then. One of those interminable dinner parties his mother attended as part of her grim, iron-willed campaign to keep from being squeezed to the margins of high society. He at her side, barely more than thirteen and intensely aware of every single awkward facet of his body, his bearing, his being. A crowd of middling lobbyists and second tier celebrities. Comfortably incumbent politicians and their-

Families.

"His name is Nosowua. He's one of Senator Yarua's sons. It was- star's blood it must have been just at the start of the War? A year or two before? It was some Judicial official's birthday. He and I had to sit at the children's table in the other room. I tried to introduce myself. He was a few years older and hated having to be there, so he pretended he couldn't speak Basic."

Alexandraghast blinked, looked around at the assembled crowd leaning in over the body. There was a hushed moment. Bossk whistled, the sound weird and resonant, coming filtered through fangs and carried on a plume of fragrant smoke as he inspected the body again. Aorosok was pulling out a datapad, calling up the Liason Board's own registry of outstanding bounties. Punching in the name and then holding it by the dead Wookie's head so everyone could see the holos, about half a decade younger and without the shiny scar on his shoulder but still recognizable.

"<Well shit>," Bossk murmured.

"I- would it be gauche of me, to make a gift of this pelt?" Alexandraghast said, drumming his gloved fingers against his lips as if trying to press back this new smile. Keep this sunny grin respectably caged and in place. Failing of course, everyone could see the shine of perfect white teeth between his fingers.

"<It's uh- it's your skin. No reason you couldn't>," Arosok replied, still somewhere between bemused and dazed as he looked from the datapad to the kill and back.

"Our skin. Our skin! It'll be from us, from all of us. Oh- do we have time for a picture? Ah, you said we have an hour. Do we have cameras- I suppose the Vipers have high enough resolution. Call one down and we'll get a few shots of us altogether. Yes all of us! All of you! We can send it with the hide to Coruscant," and he turned then, a tight excited circle. The idea unfolding itself, unpacking itself, building itself, some strange blossom unfurling there in the red dark of his skull and he could see it now, he could see how it would be. Feel the lightning-sizzle and the electric spark and his hand fell away. His delight was daunting. His sheer, uncomplicated joy washed over them all, as palpable as the nearing conflagration. And they were already moving, Bossk pausing and then pulling out a length of cord from his belt. Eyeing an overhanging tree limb as he began to lash the body's heels together. The world conforming with the vision.

Alexandraghast sighed happily.

Oh, but the Emperor would love it.

 

[Havocfett]

Excerpt from standard operating procedures at Grand Moff Tarkin Memorial Hospital, White Wing:

1.B: Staff Guidelines

Staff are to remain assigned to their patients for the entirety of their stay in the White Wing. Transfers must be submitted with six months notice and approved by a superior. Emergencies are to be approved on a case by case basis.

Bedside manner is paramount. Patients should believe that Staff is on their side and advocating for them to the greatest degree possible. Personal connections within professional boundaries are encouraged. Such connections must be maintained through invasive and terminal treatment.

Patients are to be evaluated as to further courses of action on a monthly basis. Whenever slots open for terminal and invasive treatment, Staff are expected to fill those slots immediately.

Due to staffing issues, staff are expected to administer all treatments for which they are qualified including terminal and invasive treatments. Identity-obscuring equipment may be provided on request.

Reasons to delay and defer treatments are limited to those in provided documentation. Other provided reasons will be dismissed without review.

Evaluation is expected to be objective: personal connection is not an acceptable reason to defer, delay, or cancel invasive and terminal treatment.

Self-harm and information leaks are not acceptable forms of protest to standard operating procedures. Discipline may be extended to next of kin in such circumstances. Staff who believe their work is impacted by psychological response to their duties may request immediate psychological assistance, volunteer for Procedure 32e, or request leave of absence.

Staff receiving psychological assistance must use an approved White Ward therapist. Medications assigned by the therapist will be administered by medical droid and may not be skipped for any reason without the therapists approval.

Staff receiving Procedure 32e are expected to maintain all ongoing duties until they receive the procedure, and to return to their full workload within three (3) Coruscanti weeks of the procedure's completion.

Staff who receive an approved leave of absence must treat all current patients through their stays in the White Wing. Once complete, they may take a monitored leave of absence lasting one (1) Coruscanti month. Alternately, they may rotate duties into any other Wing for six (6) Coruscanti months.

Only 5% of staff within the White Wing may be on leave at any given time.

1.B.a: Patient Evaluation

Patients in the White Wing are to be separated into three categories: Feedstock, Cooperative, and Non-Cooperative

Feedstock patients are all non-Anzati patients within the White Wing. They are to be treated normally, but medication is to be supplemented with B.18. They are not to be discharged, even if symptoms subside or they request otherwise. Patients who develop a resistance to B.18 are to be told that they have recovered sufficiently for discharge to less intensive care and transferred to Black Wing.

Complaints from Feedstock patients about other patients are to be ignored.

Cooperative patients are those who have volunteered for treatment. They are to be told that they will be discharged once a cure is found. They are to be told that all patients within the wing are here voluntarily. They are to be told that any patients moved to Terminal or Invasive treatment plans have volunteered for such. They have secondary priority for Invasive and Terminal treatment plans.

If a Cooperative patient attempts to covertly feed on a Feedstock Patient, this is to be allowed, and no indication is to be made that Staff are aware of the feeding. Other feedstock patients are to be moved to low-security rooms near the patient to encourage further excursions. Attempts to feed on Staff are to be stopped immediately but with concerns for the patients health and dignity.

Non-cooperative patients are all patients who have not volunteered for treatment. They are to be told that they will be allowed to live if they cooperate with treatment. They are to be told that all other patients in the facility have volunteered to be here. They are to be confined to their rooms at all times. They are to be restrained at all times. They have first priority for invasive and terminal treatment plans.

Patients with a history of violence, or who score above the 95th percentile in physical capability testing, are to be genome-sequenced before invasive and terminal testing. Sequences must be compatible with modern full-body and partial-tissue cloning systems.

All patients are to switch to a terminal treatment plan no later than 18 months after intake.

 

[NonSequtur]

Oversector 18, Night Hammer Command
New Order Junior Educational Development Initiative

Metre looks into the bathroom mirror and feels like a monster.

She isn't! That was what Poche said but Poche was stupid and lost! She was allowed this time, the teachers said! No fighting except in spars, and Metre had been careful. They'd showed her how much was too much hurting and she was smart.

She sniffles. Her elbow hurts from where she broke Poche's teeth. Her lek hurt from when Poche grabbed it. Poche was hurting more though, she even got Bacta, which Metre had never needed. But nobody had punished her, and the other girls weren't- saying anything, now. Not when she'd walked out, calm like a princess. Like what the teachers said to do.

She wants her moms. She wants to never see her moms. Not like this, with another girl's blood on her sleeve but still crying alone like- like she'd done something wrong. Like she was a monster. Metre was- they'd sent her here because it was the good school, not like some of the bad ones. Metre knows she's lucky. She just doesn't feel it.

She runs some cold water over her bruised lek. It pricks her eyes, but that's stupid. It's just some, uh, cappillries. That's all. Just like what Poche said was just words. Her breath hitches.

The teachers always said she needed per-spect-tive. It was only bad because- she thought something else. Thinking about her moms only made her sad because she thought they should be here. Metre just needed to. Live in what was, instead of being a selfish baby.

She looks in the mirror. Two lekku, one bruised. Some swelling and redness around her eyes. Her lip is bloody. Her robes are worse. She breathes deep like the teachers said. It helps a little. She doesn't think about... what was it?

Metre looks at the monster in the mirror, and doesn't cry. She is 12 years old.

 

[Havocfett]

Bulletin distributed in Bright Jewel Oversector, thirty six hours after Ravik's declaration of war.

Citizens of Bright Jewel, I bid you Dark Greetings!

Calamity has struck the galaxy! The abominable Ravik has betrayed the empire and each and every one of you. Rather than working towards a brighter future where all citizens look after each other on the road to perfection, Ravik has chosen sabotage and abomination. He has assaulted the good people of the Hook Nebula, and his agents have sewn dissent and terror across the galaxy! New reports indicate that even some of our own, citizens of Bright Jewel, were kidnapped, experimented upon, and murdered by Ravikites, evidence of which will be released shortly.

Fear not! Your friends and family shall not go unavenged! The full might of the Imperial Military now rises to cast down the traitor and his monstrous brethren. Star destroyers and valiant stormtroopers from across the galaxy shall topple this threat, and you now have the chance to join them! All recruitment stations in Bright Jewel have widened their recruitment quotas.

To supplement the war effort, the Empire's doctors have developed military enhancements to ensure our warriors remain the best in the galaxy. Anyone may volunteer, and refugees who wish to serve Bright Jewel and showcase her latest works shall have their families fast-tracked for Sector-wide citizenship and free biometric registration!

Even you at home can participate! Every failure of the New Order to take care of its citizens helps horrors like Ravik hide their true nature. In addition to traditional reporting of dissidents, Imperial governance stations are now also accepting anonymized whistleblower reports on corrupt officials, failing infrastructure, and similar problems in your area. Report the next Ravik before they rise to power, and help us forge the oversector that you deserve!

With your hard work and contributions to medical science, Bright Jewel will lead the galaxy in the pursuit of perfection.

 

[Dekutulla]

"This will be much easier if you talk now."

A uniformed man traces a needle-like nail across the chin of another, someone strapped to a chair in a dark and dingy cell. Some kind of liquid beads at the tip, and its chemical smell gives little hope that it's something benign. The prisoner, a rebel spirited away from Shacklemorr's greedy grasp over Yavin IV, strains to pull away.

"I'm tellin' ya, I don't know nothin' about Skywalker. Guy just showed up one day, aced the simulators, and blew up the Death Star." The rebel pulls at the restraints. "Ain't none of us knew him or anythin'! Now will ya cool it with the scissorhands, bantha-breath?"

The Imperial withdraws. One of the strip-lights embedded in the ceiling casts across his face, throwing his features into stark relief. His pale hair is pulled back meticulously, something that would make him look the picture of a standard Imperial bureaucrat were it not for the multitudes of scars running back and forth across his face. With as many slashes he'd apparently taken to the face, it was a miracle it was still attached to his skull. "Very well. Let's say we believe this 'Luke' appeared from nowhere and just happened to destroy the Empire's most powerful battlestation without so much as a week's notice. His origins hardly matter anyways - where did he go after? Where was your rendezvous?"

"I dunno, man, I was a fuckin' loader! I didn't pilot the damn ships! Y'ever fuckin' heard a need-ta-know-" His interrogator's arm darts out, needle stopping short a few centimeters from the rebel's eye. "-fuck, man! I really don't know! They didn't tell us!"

The needle hangs there, dripping onto the Rebel's uniform and burning a few more holes into the already tattered shirt. "I can see you aren't feeling pliant today. Guard-" he claps twice, "-bring in this man's plus one."

The guard, dressed in some kind of barely aesthetic boilersuit, snaps off a salute. There's nearly as much sweat dripping down the man's face as there is on the prisoner, and his face is gaunt. He leaves, and after a short interregnum returns pushing a cart with a small cage. The interrogator smiles.

"I've heard you rebels want to protect the weak. Well, this is your chance." He bends down, opening the door and pulling a figure out from within. A malnourished looking Rodian, clothed in garments that barely deserved the term. "We got this thing in this morning. Fresh off the block from the Zygerrian market, it is." The interrogator's needle slides across the Rodian's cheek, leaving a trail of burnt skin. "You tell me what I want to know, or it suffers your fate for you. And don't think about making a hard decision and ending it here - the Grand Moff likes buying in bulk."

-----

"Things are proceeding apace, sir."

Zsinj starts, nearly dropping his recaf. He whips around to face the man directly behind him. "Good gods, Melvar, I told you to stop doing that. How do you even manage it? There's only one door!"

General Melvar smiles, face completely unblemished and remarkably forgettable. "My apologies, sir. May I continue my report?"

"Yes, yes, go on." The Grand Moff waves a dataslate at the General, still looking offput as he sits down in his chair. "You're sure this plan will work, then? Not going to just sit there like a squib, will it?"

Melvar shakes his head. "Definitely not, sir. I put our weakest men in the room with the prisoners while I worked. Seditionists, bleeding hearts, Alderaanians. They'll snap, and soon we'll have everything we need."

Zsinj frowns. "And your agents?"

"Already briefed, only the best of the best." Melvar smiles. "Some of them might even go native! But that will just add to the act, don't you agree?" He sighs, tongue running over his teeth. "Oh, if only I could be there with them...not that I would second-guess your decisions, sir."

A heavy sigh. Zsinj valued Melvar, he really did, but the man's lack of self-awareness really was offputting sometimes. "Very well, make the final arrangements. Oh, and Melvar, make sure the disposal technicians are properly trained, yes? I don't want them running off with everyone else and leaving your leftovers behind to stink things up."

 

[NonSequtur]

Clak'dor VII, better known as Bith
Mayagil Sector, Night Hammer Command

[Do we risk it?] Sicmoo asked along an encrypted channel. The Grand Moff's party and the Agricorps representative had left the conference room, but this was the Empire. Who was to say what microphones could be pointed at the delegation of an alien species so close to a heartland of Imperial power?

[That is for the Consensus Machine to decide,] Moniha replied archly.

Sicmoo blinked their nictitating membranes sardonically. [Of course. I shall be sure to cast my ballet saying 'whatever you wish, oh Consensus'.]

[Cease this, both of you,] ordered the leader of the negotiating team, Thimryt. [As those responsible for presenting the offer to the Consensus, we have a responsibility to reflect on it.]

Moniha rustled their flaps. [The Empire does not make offers one can easily refuse,] they note carefully.

Sicmoo wiggled a tertiary finger in tentative agreement. [This one does seem inclined to procedure.]

[When convenient, at least,] Moniha suggested. Sicmoo ceded the point. [Yet, it may be to our advantage.]

Surac, the fourth and youngest member of the negotiating party interjected. [Two of the House Worlds have already accepted.]

[Or so Vikal-Moff says,] Moniha argued. [He did not mention which, and a change to Fengrine or Senex would be noticed.]

[It would be entirely within their character. Senex-Juvex's agricultural dominance supports much of their economy, and they have suffered under the lower prices. Those prices do support Vikal-Moff's claim somewhat, at least,] Sicmoo disagreed. The Ancient Houses of the Tangles in the north-west of Night Hammer Command were wealthy, secretive and incredibly protective of their privilege. They'd sold food and enslaved aliens before joining the Republic and they'd continued doing so unabated into the age of Empire.

[Does Vikal-Moff wish to break their influence with the Agricops-Imperial?] Surac suggested.

Sicmoo balked and Moniha trilled. [Speculative,] they reply in unison.

Sicmoo continued, [What is the worst case? The death of our planet?] He flaps at the window, inches thick to keep out the ruined and mutated world of Clak'dor VII - three hundred years murdered, by their own hands. [Vikal-Moff does not know the extent of our measures against weapons such as that, if a weapon it is.]

Another trill. [You seem eager. It would cost us any chance of recovery.]

[If the Consensus could obtain the methods of processing, it could free us from dependency.]

[The Empire would not tolerate Bith they could not starve.]

[Vikal-Moff was unwilling to provide those methods,] Surac reminded them. A sticking point in negotiations.

[A secret of the Agricorps-Imperial,] Thimryt replied at last. [But the Human-Republic forgets our Consensus is their elder. We will continue to negotiate.]

 

[Gargulec]

location unknown

There is something off about the vaulting of the Torch's conference room, Zaviya notices. The reinforcing struts intersect at odd angles, breaking the supposedly simple surface into a dizzying, polyhedral noise that captures both light and sound. It makes her mind swim to try to trace the pattern that the ship's bones should set, but it is probably just the fact she has not slept in days. But soon, soon she will. Soon, there will be a moment of rest wrested from the horror of the galaxy.

There is just one more thing left to be done.

"Our dark lady," a voice speaks, and Zaviya looks down at the smooth face of a featureless obelisk transmitting the voice of one of her servants.

The Torch has not been equipped with a traditional holo-suite; when she found the ship - and she tries not to think of that place and time, lest she has to remember it too much - it came outfitted instead with those bizarre pillars of black steel. They lit up diffuse blue when active, adding to the already cold atmosphere in the conference room, and displayed nothing more. At first, Zaviya found that frustrating, but in this moment, she can only feel relief that she does not have to see her hands face to face; that they do not have to see her sunken eyes and pallid skin. That the orders that she is about to give will be delivered as if into the void, as if to no one in particular.

It makes it a little bit easier, though a little bit.

"Our dark lady," another voice chants, from another planet, another temple, another hideout. "Our preparations are complete. The day of reckoning is at hand. We stand ready."

They believe that they serve a greater cause, her cultists, her followers, her worshippers. She deceived them so many times, ensnared them in a tight net of lies, so that they could only see her as a prophetess of the ascendant Dark Side. It tastes bitter to play the role of an emissary of her great enemy, and it tastes even worse to use the tools of fate, even if only so that the fate itself can be dismantled. If there was any other way, she would take it. If there was any other choice...

Her hand grips the little black book hanging from the chain around her neck; her little set of promises made to the galaxy, so that it will one day be free. Yes, she lied to her servants, she conned them into serving her, but one thing is true, as undeniably true as the slavery of light and dark chaining all life to the turning of fates and the eternal war of the Jedi and the Sith: they do serve a greater cause. If only she could tell them the truth-

If only she could tell the truth to anyone. But instead, she says something else.

"Very well," she declares to a dozen high priests scattered across the Oversector. "You have done well, my children. With my dark blessing, I bide you: commence."

And then everything is silent, and the silence chokes her. The lights go out one by one, and she can only speculate how many lives she has just committed to a cruel death. If only she could weep for them. If only she could ask for forgiveness. But the Torch offers her only the quiet of the tomb, and the cold certainty that she will not sleep tonight.

 

[Dekutulla]

Somewhere, low-orbit

"Fire the gas."

The officer looks to his captain. "Sir? Didn't we set this rendezvous? Why are we gassing them?"

The captain chuckles. "First time flying down here, is it? These people hate us - we tell them we're going to be somewhere, even odds are that they'll be waiting there to kill us and have people waiting from that point to five kliks out if it doesn't work." He gestures out the bridge window. "We want those people onboard, alive? We gotta catch 'em napping. Now fire the gas, son, and that's an order."

The officer nods, bewildered but not willing to countermand the order over mere puzzlement. What the warlord wants with these people, the Emperor only knows. "Yes, sir."

---

An academic afterparty; a bar, a restaurant, a club; the same scene, repeated across myriad worlds

"Excuse me, doctor. If I could have a moment of your time."

The person is dressed lightly, no rank, no uniform. Their face, forgettable, their voice calm. The men behind them are no stormtroopers, though their jackets make little effort to hide the weapons.

"My patron would like to make an offer to you. They've been quite impressed with your research, you see - and were wondering what you think of applying it." A smile showing teeth that shine like chromium bars and are laid out just as neatly. They reach into a pocket and pull out a thin credstick. "They're quite willing to make it worth your while. Of course, I understand if you need some time to think on it. Consider this a sign of our interest." They flick the stick into the doctor's lap. "We'll be in touch."

---

"Condolence Letter", Brentaal Museum of Imperial Curios, Temporary Exhibit 'The Life of Zsinj', 47ABY

To the mother of Lieutenant Ohbscha Klee

Dear Ma'am,

It is with a heavy heart that I report your son has died bravely in the line of duty against vile foes of our glorious Empire. He served bravely, and until his last moment fought to safeguard our great nation from seditious forces and terrible usurpers. That his career has been so tragically cut short is a great loss both to your family, of course, but also to our honorable Navy.

Out of respect for his sterling record, and in recognition of his death in pitched combat, Lieutenant Klee has received a posthumous promotion to Major. The bereavement compensation benefits will be adjusted upwards to match this rank. While of course mere credits can do nothing to truly assuage the grief you and yours must be going through, please let this at least support your family through these difficult times. I can only hope that you take solace in knowing we have both lost something this day.

Yours respectfully,
Warlord of the Empire, Grand Moff Zsinj

"Classified Document, retrieved from Imperial databank 19ABY", supplementary display

Coroner's Report
Name: Lt. Klee
Cause of Death: Carotid artery cut by bladed weapon.
Supplementary Information: Corpse suffered moderate burns from forces resembling high explosives. Intactness indicates location outside of effective range.

 

[Wade Garrett]

Carrack class cruiser Pale Rider, In Transit, The Recent Past

"The adulation of the masses can be far more addictive than spice, and far more destructive. The same as any unrestrained craving." Captain Bryn Gallowe knows better, he'd be upbraiding any other member of the crew that he caught gawking at an important personage, Pale Rider is a Grand Moff's personal transport, learning not to stare slack jawed at Baron Tagge or Lord Vader is as vital a skill as any of their actual duties but that is considerably easier when THE Emperor KRIFFING Palpatine isn't making a live, in person holocall, not a recording! If he steps in behind the Grand Moff and waves he'll be waving at THE Emperor, not that he would, of course not. But he could. Although given the contents of this particular call...Palpatine smiles, really smiles, and Gallowe can see it, see the Emperor the way the Grand Moff does, an elderly man bearing great burdens but too stubborn to let them fall, his seared white features a living testament to the sacrifices he has made (it almost makes him ashamed of his own unblemished features, he's gone taken up Echani Free Fighting like many of Taa's subordinates but so far to no visible effect, no weathering or scarring, he's contemplated just taking his combat blade to a cheek or temple and having it stitched but doing that, having to resort to something like that seems worse than having no scars at all) and the Emperor continues to speak. "Don't worry, young Taa. I know that none of the whispers that reach my are true. They can't be. After all, my old friend Orn could never have raised such a selfish child." Palpatine languidly lifts one hand and the holocall is broken, his image vanishing from Pale Rider's bridge.

And now every eye is on the Grand Moff, Bryn's included, he can't blame any of them, he really and truly can't, he won't claim he's close to Taa than any of the Moff's nephews, nieces and cousins with positions on the ship but he's gotten much closer since the day he shaved his head to the scalp to visibly align with the ruling powers of Red Tails Oversector, his own wife is the daughter in law of the Emperor's old friend's personal barrister, he knows the Twi'lek very well, and so his eyes are locked on the Grand Moff just as they would be locked on an enemy ship of the line swinging about to unleash a full broadside, and Lorn merely closes his eyes and cups his chin in one hand.

"Captain?"

"Sir!" And he snaps to attention, even if it's entirely too late for that, even if the Grand Moff cannot, in fact, tell that he has done so.

"Clear the training center and hold my calls for two...no, three cycles, and send word to Ryloth. I want a full family gathering, physically present if they can arrive before us or simultaneously, holoconference if not, but they are to be present in some form or fashion. Spouses and...informal arrangements as well."

"Sir!"

Personal office of the Grand Moff, Oversector 14, Ryloth, A Short Time Ago
"-killed our brother, an ye just dae nothing?"

He should say something comforting. Something consoling. He should put his arms around his sister and be the rock, be the foundation everyone can anchor to, that everyone else in the family can draw strength from, that's what a man does, what a man is, and even if she has no idea, if she thinks he isn't gutted inside, a hollow sick place seeing something or thinking of something Quorn would think this is fascinating, I should call him and ask him if, even if it's choking down bile and venom because how can she be so stupid, so blind, he needs her, he can't do all of this without her so just say the things to get through this-"Fine then. Go bury yourself in that villa and wait to die, just like you did for decades after Dorn died, you're really good at that!" And oh, the expression on her face, the satisfaction of finally saying it, saying it to her face, it's real and it's intense enough to just for an instant outpace the Oh Goddess I said it I didn't mean it Norn I'm sorry and then the back of her hand cracks against his cheek.

She hit him. She hit him, and oh the expression on his face, the welt rising, the satisfaction of shutting that mouth and it's real and it's intense enough to just for an instant, she hit Lorn, she hit him- she sees motion, one shoulder pulling back, has time to think he won't hit me and then her brother's arm blurs and the sound of impact and breaking bone fills the chamber.

The Grand Moff of Red Tails stands alone. Bloodied knuckles still pressed against, grinding against the durasteel wall that broke them, the sound of Norn's footsteps receding in the distance, nothing but him and thoughts he doesn't want to think, words he can't unsay, and so he presses his clenched fist into the wall even harder.

LIVE TRANSMISSION FROM THE OFFICE OF THE GRAND MOFF, NOW

"Citizens of Oversector Fourteen, I bid you all Dark Greetings."

For once, the Twi'lek is not clad in combat armor, has donned the ceremonial uniform of a Grand Moff, New Order black jacket, trousers and cravat, its somber appearance lightened by red and white epaulets and ribbons, the only hint of his usual attire a gleaming chrome gauntlet laced tight onto his left hand.

"And I want to tell you all how proud I am of every one of you. The Hutt syndicates are broken. We did that. Each and every one of us. Because of us, what we did. And I wish I could say that now we would have peace. But that isn't the galaxy we live in. It never was, not really."

The galactic map appears behind him, the Hook Nebula Oversector filling with a poisonous yellow green light.

"Grand Moff Ravik and a sizable portion of his armed forces have turned against the Empire. And turned into something...." a hulking arachnid form rises out of the sickly green, light multiple arms reaching out towards Red Tails.

"There's a lot being said, a lot we still don't know, a lot we may never know. Everything I say from this point, I've spoken to experts, but this, nothings for sure but some things are more likely than others."
Another menacing figure is overlaid on the galaxy map, the towering form of the late Emir Wat Tambor, blotting out the Galactic North, his arms spread wide to gloat. More images fade in around the former Foreman, the altered fungi of Zagobath, the twisted cyber warriors of Nalveen, surrounding the Cheiron rising from Hook Nebula with a veritable throng of horrors.

"During the Clone Wars, one of the specialties of the Techno Union was the creation of monsters. And after that conflict ended, there were many, many high ranking members of the Union whose bodies were never found. According to the researchers I've spoken with, these....things coming out of Hook Nebula Oversector are consistent with something that could be made if they had two decades to refine their processes. Although this is, again, there's still a lot we don't know."

As he speaks, the Grand Moff removes his jacket, begins rolling up his shirtsleeves, he's warming to his subject now.

"But this is what we do now. This is what I know. I know the Techno Union with the whole damn Confederacy behind it couldn't break us. I know the Hutts that stabbed us in the back, that killed Wilhuff Tarkin, they couldn't beat us! And these monsters, these traitors, to the last ship, to last drop pf blood, not one. Single. Planet will fall to them. That's what I know! Long live...."

A pause. Lorn Taa frozen in the midst of a tableau, disheveled, spoiling for a fight, defiant in the midst of monsters and the looming menace of the Seperatist boogeyman. And then he shakes his head ruefully, the various figures and the map of the galaxy fading away until he stands alone in the darkness.

"I know, I know. You're all asking yourselves, is he not going to address it? Is he just going to...pretend it didn't happen? And I could do that, I could say this is private, this is a purely personal matter, but when you're a Grand Moff of the Empire, so all right. All right then. Let's begin with a little context. My name is Lorn Vree Taa, son of Orn Free Taa, Senator of the great planet of Ryloth." The Core World elocution gives way to a drawl as a luminous image of the late Senator appears behind his son, Orn in the prime of his life, grinning ear to ear and waving to an unseen audience.

"Brother to Quorn Scee Taa, who lost his life during the special reprisal operation in Hutt Space...and to all of you who organized memorials, all of you who sent condolences to me or my family, thank you. Thank you, it means a lot....except for one certain, specific old friend of the family." The last phrase almost spit thru clenched teeth, the Grand Moff's accent thickening as another image snaps into existence, Senator Taa again, smile looking just a bit strained as he shakes the hand of another Twi'lek, both men framed against a mass of burning battle droid limbs.

"A little history lesson for you younger citizens, meet General Cham Syndulla. The man who helped my father save Ryloth during the Clone Wars. When they decided that the bad blood, the vendetta between the Taa family and the Syndulla family, maybe that was a little less important than stopping the Seperatists. And they did it! And they were celebrated! Glorified! The heroes who saved Ryloth. But the thing...when you're a selfish, egotistical gasbag, being one of the heroes who saved Ryloth, sharing the credit, the acclaim, that's not enough, you have to be the Hero of Ryloth."

The image changes, Orn Free Taa is alone, Senate robes swirling about his corpulent frame as he topples over, the fiery streak of a blaster bolt slashing across his forehead, murderous shot frozen in time.

"So you gun down an unarmed man. Try to murder him, make orphans of his children, widows of his wives, and you screw that up, and you crawl into a hole and hide from the consequences, and you spend decades in that hole whining to yourself about how unfair everything is, and then, and this takes a special kind of person, you slither on your belly to a wake, a wake for the son of the man you tried to have killed, and you say, So on this tragic occasion, in this time of mourning, how can I make this all about me? HOW DARE YOU!"

Lorn roars the last three words, tearing at at his tailored shirt, the image of the attempted assassination vanishing as he rages to the holocam, hurling strips of tailored finery away as he rants.

"So here's my response, General, and I know you're watching this, you haven't changed a damn bit, someone's saying your name? Paying attention to you? Your eyes are glued to this transmission, so listen and listen real good: I do not have time. Right now, there are fleets, there are monsters, there are women and children on hundreds of planets depending on ME to protect them, to keep them safe from those monsters, THAT IS MY DUTY, THAT IS MY RESPONSIBILITY, and that is a damn sight more important than settling scores with a broken down old soldier that's just eaten up, that can't stand that he was never half the man my father was."

A deep breath. Visibly mastering himself, sweat gleaming from beneath his shredded clothing.

"And as to the circumstances of my brother Quorn's death, as to blame, punishment, and recompense, that is a personal affair I will resolve in my own time, and in my own way. Long Live The Empire."
END TRANSMISSION


EXCERPT FROM PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE (Privileged) BETWEEN GRAND MOFF LORN VREE TAA AND THE SECRETARY OF THE FOURTEENTH OVERSECTOR COUNCIL

.....never hurt you, I never should have said that, if I could take it back, make it so that never happened, you don't understand. I didn't understand, I think Dad, I think he was trying to...Palpatine tried to warn me, he's a good man but he's not in control, I don't think anyone is, the Imperial Court, the Advisory Council, it's just mouths and they're hungry and they want to feed, if I fail, and it won't be just me, they'll eat and eat and eat, our whole family, they'll rip us all apart and still be hungry.....
DELETED UNSENT, RETRIEVED BY IMPERIAL INTELLIGENCE "JAWA" PROTOCOL FOR THE PERUSAL OF DIRECTOR ISARD


OFFICIAL COMMUNICATION FROM THE OFFICE OF GRAND MOFF TAA TO IMPERIAL COUNTESS RIVOCHE TARKIN

I am forwarding this message to you due to Oversector Secretary Norn Xhee Taa's failure to respond to communications through other channels, as you are listed as her "Notify In The Event Of Misadventure" Contact kindly inform her of the following:

In light of recent events, she is being placed on a Compensated Leave of Absence, retroactive to the beginning of her failure to appear at daily Council meetings, personnel will be temporarily reassigned to cover her duties.However, despite the approval of her CLOA, she will still be expected to manage certain time sensitive issues during her leave, I have attached all relevant files to this transmission, encrypted to her personal clearance codes.

Long Live The Empire!

 

[Cornuthaum]

SO LET IT BE WRITTEN, SO LET IT BE DONE
The Ivory Fang War Measures Act of 19 AFE​

By the order of Grand Moff Byurroq-Raht of Oversector 16, Ivory Fang, so ordered:
It is hereby recognised that in the wake of the High Treason by the Traitor Ravik a State of War between the Galactic Empire and the Secessionist Traitors formerly of Oversector Fifteen exists.
It is hereby recognised that in the wake of His Majesty the Emperor's declaration that all the Empire unite to crush this Treasonous Secession Oversector Sixteen Ivory Fang commit its troops and its fleets to this effort and the security of its garrisons, its industries and its people.
It is hereby recognised that Measures for the Defence of the Oversectors are to be taken in accordance with the Anaxes Manuals of Fortifications along the Corellian Run and Hydian Way for the Safety and Protection of the Peoples
It is hereby recognised that the Industries and Productivity of Oversector Sixteen Ivory Fang shall contribute to the fulfilment of the Will of the Emperor that the Traitor Ravik be destroyed in supporting all such offenses against the Secessionist Traitors

---

SO LET IT BE WRITTEN, SO LET IT BE DONE
The Fleet Advancement Act of 19 AFE​

By the order of Grand Moff Byurroq-Raht of Oversector 16, Ivory Fang, so ordered:
It is hereby recognised that due to the High Treason of the Traitor Ravik and his forces there exists a need to muster a mobile Task Force for the Defence and Security of Oversector Sixteen Ivory Fang
It is hereby recognised that the Admirals and Commodores of the Fleets and Squadrons of Oversector Sixteen Ivory Fang are to submit personnel of their recommendation for review for potential induction into this Task Force.
It is hereby recognised that the Office of Supply and Distribution of the Imperial Armed Forces be contacted to seek out those volunteering for reassignment to Oversector Sixteen Ivory Fang as part of this Task Force.

---

SO LET IT BE WRITTEN, SO LET IT BE DONE
The Social Conformity Act of 19 AFE​

By the hand of Ihza Byurroq-Raht, Chairholder of the Select Committee for the Preservation of the New Order, so ordered:
It is hereby recognised that the defense against the threat from WIthout is the foundation, justification and perpetuation of the New Order.
It is hereby recognised that the Traitor Ravik and his allies represent such a threat and it is therefore the duty of each Imperial Citizen to comport themselves in accordance with the expectations of the New Order.
It is hereby recognised that the Frivolity Policing Unit shall not be infringing upon sanctioned expressions of hatred, digust, revulsion and other proper Imperial Behaviour so long as it is directed towards the Traitor Ravik, his secessionist forces, Rebels, dissidents and all others who mean to harm the Galactic Empire.
It is hereby recognised that Excesses of Ego led the Traitor Ravik into Secession and that to combat this the Commission for the Preservation of the New Order issues new style guidelines for the public comportment of the Citizens of Oversector Sixteen Ivory Fang.
It is hereby recognised that Excess of Vanity led the Traitor Ravik to reject the New Order and that to combat this the Commission for the Preservation of the New Order issues new style guidelines for Architectural Presentation within the Oversector.
It is hereby recognised that Excess of Selfishness led the Traitor Ravik into Secession and that to combat this the Coalition of for Progress of the Commission for the Preservation of the New Order reminds all citizens of Oversector Sixteen Ivory Fang that there is Strength in Unity and that the subordination of the individual need towards duty to the Empire is an universal obligation.

 

[Cornuthaum]

CHARDAAN
CAPITAL OF OVERSECTOR 16 IVORY FANG
On the Observation Deck of the Chardaan Shipyards

Admiral Nohgoude knows he's pacing, but he can't stop himself. An unscheduled meeting with the Grand Moff, inserted into his calendar by the man himself? His secretary sweating like she's got a fever, attesting to the fact that the Grand Moff had simply walked into the Admiral's office, asked for a stylus and then written the time and place for this meeting on his calendar datapad while he was out for lunch?

Did the Grand Moff find out about the fuel deals? About the way the admiral has been bribing the FPU to look past Nohgoude Jr.'s exuberance? About the 557th Brigade of Marine Infantry, the paper formation who existed only to funnel their paystubs into his own accounts? Is this the day where he's going to be made an example of?

No.... no, the FPU would have gotten him if that had been the case. They greyest of the grey, the most reviled men in Ivory Fang... and the stewards of COMPNOR's vision. It was easy to hate them, easier still to forget that they were the moral shepherds of the New Order. And with the traitor Ravik - was it not clear that the Grand Moff had forseen what excesses of ego and selfishness could lead to?

Admiral Ahm Nohgoude is riven between two extremes. On one hand, the FPU are a bunch of corrupt, joyless bastards, on the other hand, the Grand Moff was invited to join the Select Committee of COMPNOR after establishing them, just in time to protect the moral character of Ivory Fang from treason like Ravik's.

Admiral Nohgoude only notices the pall of silence that has fallen on the observation deck when the clack of regulation-issue boots coming to a halt starts him out of his reverie. It is a testament to his self-control that he does not lose control of himself when he realises the man who has joined him in looking at the Imperial-II Star Destroyer Imperial Law, his flagship, is no-one else than the Grand Moff himself.

Because really, who would think a man like that to be one who controls one-twentieth of the galaxy in the Emperor's name? The round reading glasses, the faintly polite expression, the regulation uniform, the slight amount of greying hair at the temples... the somewhat rat-like face of a career bureaucrat? Who would think that this is a man standing coequal to Supreme Commander Shacklemorr or the megalithic social engineering of Praji-Kuat?

Even the Grand Moff's voice is unremarkable. Something you'd hear from the secretary taking minutes during a command meeting, rather than the one giving orders. But Ihza Byurroq-Raht is his Grand Moff, and so his ears are keenly-tuned to take in what his commander is saying.

"Your eyes do not deceive you, Admiral. Your squadron has been put on expedited priority for repairs and refit."

Oh, Nohgoude thinks, this is it. I'm dead. I'll be replaced. He's here to tell me in person that the FPU are going to drag me and the family off to the Centre for the Reformation of Moral Turptitude. He just wanted to gloat-

"As you can imagine, Admiral, Ivory Fang Command has readied a vast outlay of resources, men and materiel necessary for the persecution of war against treasonous secession. Orders will be cut in full tomorrow but I felt it necessary to speak to you first."

Here it comes. Goodbye, career. Goodbye, life. Goodb-

"After all, Admiral Nohgoude, you will be my spearhead in this war. Even now, Imperial Law is being refit with the latest and finest of Chardaan's command and control suites."

Adrenaline and endorphins hit Ahm Nohgoude like twin hammers, one to each temple. Dazed, reeling, trapped in a body frozen stock-still by the presence of his Grand Moff and the obligations of proper bearing under the New Order, all the Admiral hears is the thump-thump-thump of his hammering heartbeat and the rush of blood in his ears.

Not death! Not death at all, but - a promotion, to full field command?

The briefest of smiles graces Grand Moff Byurroq-Raht's lips, and the Admiral realises that he is being read. But - what is he to do, but hold on to the mask of proper comportment while his mind reboots from this shock? He manages, somehow, not to embarrass himself beyond the beads of sweat running down his temples.

"Now, now, Admiral, don't look so shocked. I've consulted your files- you have always performed your duties adequately, as expected of an Admiral of the Empire. And in these troubling days, when extremes of ego and selfishness imperil the realm, adequacy and a predilection towards steadfast service is just what I need."

Is this an insult, the Admiral wonders? Am I being told that my type of graft and corruption and routine anti-piracy and anti-rebel patrols are so unremarkable that I am deemed without ego? He almost wants to be angry - but here? Now? Facing his Grand Moff, while they both overlook the refit of his flagship? It would be treasonous (and thus deadly), stupid (and deadly) and, frankly, why complain about why he is being given field command if he is given Field Command?

"I see, Sir," he eventually manages. "I am, of course, honoured to accept the responsibility." He snaps a regulation-perfect salute. "Glory to Ivory Fang, and death to the traitors!"

Hate is, after all, allowed. And by all that he has ever believed in, right now he needs to vent the turbulent feelings inside him.

Grand Moff Byurroq-Raht nods once, decisively. "Excellent. You, and you alone, have my full confidence that my forces will do their part well." The way he stresses that gives the Admiral palpitations. His imagination returns to correctional facilities against Moral Turptitude, or hopefully a more merciful firing squad. "And do bid the Supreme Commander with Dark Greetings on my behalf, would you? We are, after all, under his banner in this."

All Ahm Nohgoude can do is scream inside, and thank his Grand Moff for the honour.

 

[Maugan Ra]

Peacekeeping

With war in the offering, matters of public order and law enforcement across the Empire swiftly fell by the wayside, their pursuit often lambasted as the meaningless fixation of petty fools with no true sense of responsibility. The Enemy Without brought organic warships to bear across the myriad systems of the south, while the Enemy Within struck at military targets and assassinated ranking officials with increasing fervour - in the face of such threats, the very notion of wasting one's time with mere civil disobedience or curtailing protestors took on an increasingly unfavourable light. Yet it could not be set entirely aside, and so those with the time and effort to spare from the grander threats managed as best they could.

In the depths of the Galactic Core, Grand Moff Zaviya deployed her personal forces on a most unusual manhunt. A renegade with a lightsaber had struck at several of her excavation sites, and though it cost a thousand lives, Zaviya would have the (presumed) Jedi bound and collared for the affront. In this undertaking she secured significant assistance from Grand Moff Fauma, who had his own interests in the region and a number of agents with significant skill at tracking down hidden foes and digging them out of their boltholes.

Article:

Shadow Hand rolls 2, 2 and 5.

The Jedi rolls 5, 4, 2 and 1.

The rebel operation is victorious, albeit narrowly.

There is a follow up action to counter low morale and restore good order. For this, Zaviya rolls 4, 10 and 9, while the local unrest results in rolls of 4 and 3. Order is thereby restored.

Unfortunately, while the combined operation was able to pin down the suspected insurgent and deploy the necessary forces at their location, the actual engagement was entirely derailed by the intervention of a heretofore unknown paramilitary force bearing weapons and armour straight out of a Clone Wars documentary, including an entire regiment of B1 Battle Droids. The sense of anachronistic disquiet felt by the rapidly regrouping Shadow Hand forces was only compounded by the identification of the insurgent leading them - the Dathomiri warrior, Confederate war criminal and former sith acolyte, Asajj Ventress.

Having routed the taskforce hunting her, the infamous witch paused only to address the recording devices that the nominal archaeologist team at the heart of the detachment had brought with her, an address that inevitably became known to much of the local underworld and beyond in short order.

Article:

The path we have walked can seem a monstrous burden, so heavy with sin and obligation as to make our next steps inevitable. I know this better than most. Yet it is never too late to turn aside, no matter how impossible, how unforgivable, such a thing might seem. You who seek wisdom, hear now the truth I have to share - we are, each of us, the masters of our own destiny and nothing more. This choice is yours and yours alone to make.

Let the past rest, or die by my blade.

What effect the broadcast had on the reclusive Grand Moff is unknown, but the character of Oversector Five changed significantly over the following days and weeks. Agitators either disappeared in the night or abruptly began to beg for peace and good order, bounty hunters found their suppliers no longer interested in doing business, and imperial officials throughout the Oversector found the populations beneath their sheltering hand greeting them with smiles and open cheer.

There were no raids. There were no executions. The hand of the Empire scarcely seemed to exist at all, in fact. The only common thread, if any could be found, was the rumoured appearance of some manner of ship in high orbit over the worlds of the deep core prior to their change of heart. A ship that seemed only barely real at the best of times, and which sang to itself and those who approached too near in the voices of those long dead.

The infectious good mood soon spread to the neighbouring Green Mantle Oversector, though thankfully without the appearance of any strangely singing ships in orbit. Liburnian Shrike did not truck with such superstitious witchery at any time, much less when it came to matters of public order and discipline. Instead he preferred the application of tried and tested techniques - the exporting of uncontrollable radicals, the promotion of respected local voices who could be relied upon to serve his interests, and the addressing of certain longstanding yet easily solvable issues that gave rise to widespread grievance. Localism was the name of the game, each world and sub-sector encouraged to legislate in line with its own proud traditions and noble heritages, to pursue its own interests in the grand spirit of entrepreneurs everywhere.

Some dissenters spoke out against the Grand Moff for this, no few of them found among the zealous ranks of the enforcers of the New Order which Shrike was now supposed to be serving and defending, but more perceptive minds on the Committee saw the wisdom in his strategies. There was nothing truly radical about Shrike's new methods, after all - merely a hundred flavours of empire, the false illusion of choice that would sate the inchoate desire for change among the shiftless masses without ever once dislodging the grip that the New Order held over the citizenry. Glory to the Empire. Glory to Liburnian Shrike.

Meanwhile, far to the south, rebel operations in Night Hammer Oversector continued to frustrate the local authorities with their elusive nature. Grand Moff Vikal had intended to disrupt the formation of the smuggling network with his characteristically heavy-handed methods - namely, by simply relocating the populations of any world that might have needed or supplied that same network as part of his general preparations for the Chieron war, and by ruthlessly replacing the remaining Hutt-affiliated criminal organisations with more ideologically acceptable human ones. While these pursuits by and large were a success, the rebel operations seemed entirely unaffected by them, adapting to the changes with a fluid ease that more regimented authorities could only envy.

Efforts to capture the identified leader of the group, one Han Solo of Corellia, were similarly fruitless. Reports streamed in of the rebel being sighted in a dozen or more far flung star systems over the course of days, and initial efforts to discern the true sightings from the false were confounded by the fact that all of them seemed to be true - indeed, that there were no less than twenty different humans going by the name of Han Solo flying customised Corellian freighters across the space lanes of Night Hammer Oversector, all seeking to establish and reinforce smuggling routes and hidden supply redoubts for the benefit of the Rebel Alliance and their allies. Many were escorted by X-Wings or veteran mercenaries turned to ideological purpose, and it seemed impossible to tell which one was the real one.

Impossible, that is, until Supreme Commander Shacklemorr arrived. Riding at the head of his infamous Cossack Squadron, the Grand Moff swiftly identified, ran down and captured one of the scores of possible targets, confidently declaring that he had captured the rebel. When questioned on the source of his certainty by his peers, Shacklemorr blithely revealed the secret to his success - the decoy Solos had been unleashed at his command, as part of a sting operation to bait out other traitors and sympathisers in the area. With vicious satisfaction, he revealed that the bait had been taken - the grim-faced mercenaries that had been seen accompanying some of the doubles were in fact registered agents of the Imperial Bounty Hunter's Guild, sent to assist the rebels in their operations by no less a personage than Grand Moff Palima Polivas of Oversector One.

Such an explosive claim could not fail to elicit a reaction, and few were surprised when Emperor Palpatine demanded that both Grand Moffs present themselves before him with immediate effect.

Despite the potential fallout of such an interrogation, the galaxy continued to turn. In the galactic east, Grand Moff Gavax contented himself with the knowledge that the Mon Calamari and their minions were sealed up behind a fearsome blockade, turning his attention instead to pacifying the rest of his oversector. The vast refugee population would be dealt with in time, but for now he focused on the threat to amateur bounty hunters and terrorists threatening his officers and crippling the rest of the command hierarchy, deploying troops to secure vulnerable locations and his famed death commandos on retaliatory strikes against those foolish enough to collect on Hutt bounties.

Article:

Gavax rolls 5, 10 and 7.

The local dissidents roll 10, 9 and 9.

The 10s cancel out, and then the rebel 9 beats the imperial 7.

Unfortunately, the efforts were largely a case of too little, too late. The damage had already been done, and while the frontline troops of Cerulean Spear massacred a number of dissident holdouts, this did little to repair the great gaping holes torn in their command structure across the oversector. Still, at least Gavax could console himself with the profit he was going to earn from other activities, and the increasingly pliable nature of the local underworld.

Byurroq-Raht could console himself with nothing. By all objective measurements the Ivory Fang Social Conformity Act was a great success - recruitment quotas had been met and exceeded, the inflow of refugees rendered organised and legible in record time, and incidents of public defiance or unrest had fallen steadily with the introduction of acceptable outlets for emotional outbursts, chiefly in displays of hatred and righteous rage against the Traitor Ravik and all suspected collaborators or sympathisers thereof. There had even been a construction boom, all of it in the proper monochrome and monolithic style that so fascinated the current leadership of COMPNOR. Yet Byurroq-Raht felt no joy, no accomplishment, no satisfaction. Only a faint and hungry impulse towards more. Or rather, towards less.

Grand Moff Zsinj by contrast was renowned for his great jests, his hunger and his charisma. Yet even the most sanguine of temperaments could be tested by news of a great breakout of rebel prisoners from holding facilities under one's command. The effort had clearly been orchestrated by external actors, for rebel gunships were ready and waiting to collect the escapees as soon as they reached the wilderness beyond the prison walls, and the security forces scrambled from nearby garrisons arrived only in time to see the last echoes of hyperspace jumps fading on their scanners. Zsinj himself was said to have been rendered nearly apoplectic by the news, sending his underlings scurrying in fear of their lives.

Yet what might have in other seasons been the most disgraceful of highlights was soon drowned out by news from Oversector Three.

With her command in danger of drowning beneath the rising tide of civil unrest and hostile action, Grand Moff Vitiion Korray settled upon an audacious strategy. She would present to her enemies an irresistible target, and when they moved to claim it she would cut them off at a single stroke. Thus she elected to hold a grand ceremony upon the oversector capital world of Chandrila, one part conference to one part public ritual that would affirm the Grand Moff's commitment to defeating her enemies and restoring order to her oversector. Every imperial official of planetary rank or above was invited, the summons mandatory on pain of being declared a traitor, and so the government district soon thronged with thousands of high ranking imperials of all stripes.

It could not be more obviously a trap, and yet the Rebel Alliance came regardless. They could hardly do less, not with so many prime targets begging for justice, not with the Steel Butcher herself in attendance. General Crix Madine, once of the Storm Commandos, now one of the Rebel Alliance's foremost commandos, was chosen to lead the strike - as an ex-imperial who had once been commanded to unleash bioweapons in service to the Empire, Madine felt uniquely qualified and motivated to lead this raid. Knowing that Korray would doubtless have heavy surveillance in place to catch any infiltrators, and doubtless a great many troops waiting nearby to trap any ground forces, Madine settled on an unconventional yet devastating stratagem - a bomber raid.

Article:

Korray rolls a 10 and a 9 for her efforts.

The rebels roll 2, 10, 6, 2, 8 and 7.

The 10s cancel out and Korray's nine beats the rebel eight. Korray emerges victorious, by the skin of her teeth.

It should have been impossible. Steel Blade's ships should have been alert to any incoming fighters, Chandrilla's air defence network should have shot down unauthorised air traffic, the local garrison should have filled the air with TIE fighters to ward off the assault. None of this happened. The vast bulk of Steel Blade's ships were absent, forcibly redeployed by order of Supreme Commander Shacklemorr, leaving the Oversector painfully vulnerable. The capital city's power grid unexpectedly cycled just as the Y-Wings arrived, creating a momentary vulnerability, and precisely targeted commando raids crippled the air bases just at the right moment.

By what might have been luck or good judgement, Grand Moff Korray escaped the subsequent rain of proton torpedoes entirely unscathed. Hundreds of her subordinates did not, blown limb from limb by the rebels before they escaped back into orbit, but what did that matter? Everyone on Chandrilla and beyond saw the footage, watched Korray walking fearlessly through the smoke and across the rubble, saw her impose order and discipline on the survivors with unflappable stoicism. Though they knew in their minds their Grand Moff was a mortal woman, no different to any other, in their hearts she appeared a fearless and unkillable juggernaut, the New Order in the flesh.

 

[NonSequtur]

From: Carlo Vikal, of Night Hammer Command
To: His Majesty the Emperor
Cc: The Mofference, Lord Vader
Subject: Deconfliction Of Intelligence Assets

Dark greetings, luminaries of the Empire.

A lack of coordination has disrupted efforts to suppress seditious behaviour in the North-West of Night Hammer Command. It is a testament to the Supreme Commander's skill and foresight that he was nevertheless able to capture the fugitive Han Solo as part of our operations these past months. However, our success being less than total highlights areas of improvement for our intelligence apparatus, as well as in the devolved authorities of the region.

Lacking personal experience in the trade of espionage, and placing my trust in the institutions that serve to keep us safe, I can only say that I am sure necessary reforms are already underway to ensure that each Moff has what briefings they require to maintain the peace of the Empire in the territories we manage on your behalf. As Grand Moff of Oversector 18, I will of course take steps to ameliorate any errors in judgment done within my remit.

Sincerely,
Carlo Vikal
Grand Moff of Greater Seswenna, Night Hammer Command

~

From: Wilhemina Sludjsis, adjunct to Grand Moff Carlo Vikal
To: The Backfire Fleet
CC: Carlo Vikal, of Night Hammer Command
Subject: FW: Deconfliction Of Intelligence Assets

Ancient Houses Vandron, Halliikeenovich and Picutorion are off-limits. The smugglers have to be using some planets of the others. Hold them accountable.

~

From: Carlo Vikal, of Night Hammer Command
To: Wilhemina Sludjsis, adjunct to Grand Moff Carlo Vikal
Subject: RE: FW: Deconfliction Of Intelligence Assets

Thank you Ina.

Carlo Vikal
Grand Moff of Greater Seswenna, Night Hammer Command

 

[Gargulec]

location unknown

"And what then, Ventress?"

The tessellated walls of the Torch eat the sound; Zaviya voice disappears into silence of an anechoic chamber. The ship listens, but it will not allow her to hear herself back. Maybe it is for the better, a part of the Grand Moff whispers in the pauses between the hushed demands. Maybe it is for the better that she cannot hear herself, maybe it is better her only audience is this old cursed ship, and coffins of some long dead monsters she is yet to pry open.

"And what then? You change, I change, the wheel turns again! That you or I can choose, do you really think it is freedom?"

A series of bright lights criss-crosses 0R8. There are many things the droid wants to say, but its mistress had its muted. No, this dialogue is between her, and that cursed Jedi's - or Sith's, it matters not - challenge. A challenge that Zaviya must rise to, because the alternative is too awful to consider. She clutches the little black notebook at her neck as she looks for more words, more counter-arguments.

"It is not about you, it is not about me! Why must everyone be so myopic? It is not good, it is not evil, it is the cycle! And nothing we choose can ever change that!"

There are so many things she wishes she could tell that bitch to the face! Does she have any idea how many times the Jedi rose, and fell? How many empires choked the Galaxy before the current one?

"Let the past rest? The past is not even past, Ventress! Not until we kill it, once and for all!"

What hurts her the most, she realizes, is that at least now she can speak openly; now, faced with this absent enemy, she can make a case for what she can see with such painful clarity, even as everyone else turns a blind to its glaring presence. But the enemy is not in her grasp. Zaviya paid so much - in blood, diginity, in favours traded, and proffered lies - only to be rewarded with nothing but a taunting nothing. Nothing! Only the growing emptiness of the Torch, only the weight of history with no vessel to carry it.

Or die by blade.

The echo is false, of course. It is just her fragmenting sanity, Zaviya decides in an instant, refusing to try to listen to her ship's own voice, refusing to indulge the near-certainity it had long since grown out dumb inanimancy of base matter into something far worse. Or die by my blade.

"And if you kill me, what happens then?" she cries, surprised to find herself on her knees. Only the tangle of 0R8 cables keeps her up, a puppet on a slave-machine's string. Even now, she can recognize the irony. "We are all slaves, no matter what we choose."

Clarity, as is its wont, comes to her at the bottom of the abyss, at the touch of the floor, and the crushing weight of the Torch's necrotic air. When she finally breathes, she knows how to answer the challenge.

"Unless you show me another way."

You won't.

"Unless you prove me wrong."

You can't.

"Unless..."

Let me have my certainty back.

 

[Maugan Ra]

To Chain the Stars

Slavery in the Old Republic had always been a contentious issue. Legally banned for centuries by senatorial command, the trade and those who practised it had nonetheless persisted in a myriad of forms. Some worlds and species had found workarounds and legal loopholes, classifying their unfree labour as 'indentured servants' or debtors working off their obligations, while others relied on distance and disinterest from Republic authorities to name the trade openly.

During the Clone Wars, the practice of slavery became associated in the public eye with the Separatists and their heartless corporate overlords, even as compelled labour of various stripes became more and more common. After the Declaration of the New Order, this trend continued, with any number of loopholes and exceptions added over the years until whole swathes of the galaxy lived in such a state that slavery was legal in all but name. For most this was enough, yet for Grand Moff Byurroq-Raht of Oversector 16, it was entirely intolerable. Reaching out to several of his peers, a relative handful chosen from among the exalted ranks of the few dozen most powerful sentients in the galaxy, the Grand Moff proposed a solution.

The Reformation of Involuntary Forced Labour Act proposed to review, reform and standardise legal practices surrounding the question of slavery across the entire Galactic Empire, stripping away all of the preexisting ambiguity to make the act not merely legal and regulated, but ethical and praiseworthy by all who truly believed in the Empire's civilising mission. Nonhuman species were hereafter to be considered slaves by default, their ownership reverting to the state if no private master could be found, with specific waivers or exemptions required for client races or those exceptional individuals that had proven their worth under the principles of the New Order. Humans, meanwhile, could be enslaved for a number of specifically enumerated causes ranging from criminal punishment to insufficient mental capability.

Public backlash against the "Shackle Act" was widespread and immediate, with riots breaking out on a thousand worlds and acts of public defiance and illegal protest increasing by an order of magnitude over the following weeks, yet there was little that could be done. Fully half of the Grand Moffs cosigned or otherwise offered support to the bill, and by the end of the month Emperor Palpatine had added his own imprinteur and elevated the Act to the status of Imperial Law. The Galactic Empire was now a slaver's state, proudly and undeniably.

Article:

Unrest in every Oversector rises by two points.

Grand Moff Byurroq-Raht gains a new Title:

Chairman of the Imperial Labour Board

• Powers: You gain one free dice on any opposed action which might benefit from the allocation of massed labour, or authority over the enslaved labour of another.
• Cost: Unrest in your Oversector can never be reduced below 3.

While the masses protested or made their peace with the changes as best they could, the highest ranks among the Empire responded to the Act's passing as best suited their personal character.

To some among the Grand Moffs, slavery was a source of profit, nothing more or less. Grand Moff Shacklemorr was perhaps the best positioned to gain, having been enslaving 'enemy combatants' and 'inveterate criminals' by the millions already, and the new income flow was swiftly put to use buying the loyalty and soothing the wounded morale of the soldiers under his command. Grand Moff Fauma, by contrast, simply began enslaving every single refugee and unregistered traveller that crossed the borders of his Oversector, confiscating their property wholesale before shipping the suddenly dispossessed on great transports to the preexisting markets in what had once been Hutt Space. He shared none of this new wealth directly, but the introduction of a bounty system on any executed criminal among the newly impressed masses, portioned out equitably between the executing soldier and their various comrades and superiors bought him a great deal of good feeling even so.

To others, it was an opportunity to shore up their own positions and remove troublesome elements lurking beneath their banner. In Cerulean Spear, Grand Moff Gavax saw a golden opportunity to rid himself of the hungry mouths and disquiet masses of the refugees that had plagued him for close to a year now. Those with patrons elsewhere - Twi'leks and Trandoshans for the most part - were herded aboard transports back to their homelands, the physically fit were offered military service to replace the oversector's losses in the recent war, and all others were chained together en masse.

In Chrome Shield Oversector, Grand Moff Krietten did not so much ride the wave as look carefully aside while those more zealously fanatical than he did so in his stead. Criminals and seditionists had made a game of targeting imperial officers for glory and hutt gold, and so the hard-eyed soldiers of Chrome Shield felt it only fitting to clap the chains of justice around whole families, neighbourhoods and ethnic groups in exchange. Whatever the morality of the situation, the practical effects were as Krietten had hoped, as attempts on the lives of his subordinates trailed off and Darth Vader was able to arrive and operate unmolested.

Article:

Bif rolls 7, 6 and 8.

The local rebels roll 6 and 7.

Consequently, Bif succeeds in ending the 'rebel' operation in his oversector.

Still others saw the formal legalisation of slavery as a tool that they might turn to suit their own ambitions. In Night Hammer oversector, Grand Moff Vikal promptly created a series of "Emancipation Zones" where no sentient being could be held in bondage, regardless of their species. By restricting these refuges to the industrial core of his oversector, the Grand Moff created the cruellest of incentives for internal migration, turning a blind eye to the depredations of foreign military forces brought in to fight the Chieron menace in the meantime.

Similar methods were employed in White Cuirass Oversector, though here Praji-Kuat opted to wield a much broader brush. Those sentients employed in the defence or construction industries, who held residences on major industrial or trade worlds or indeed the new Megalith constructions, who had a family member in direct imperial service - all of these were exempt from slavery in any form. Similarly the Trandoshans were granted universal immunity in recognition of their service, and negotiations opened up with the Nemodians, Selkath and others, all client races in good standing. Some wondered if by raw numbers the legalisation of slavery had led to fewer sentients within White Cuirass living life in chains than before, but whatever the truth might be, Praji-Kuat was no abolitionist. His great work required similarly vast quantities of mineral and chemical wealth to fuel, and it was here that the slaves of White Cuirass - most sentenced to such a fate by judgement passed on their criminal deeds - were largely found, repaying the society they had damaged with the fruits of their labour in far more direct fashion than their free and happy neighbours.

Then, of course, there were those who looked at the immiseration and confinement of billions and simply rejoiced. On Imperial Centre, Grand Moff Polivas laughed and sent orders for the construction of vast hunting ranges where nonhumans could be hunted for sport. In Brazen Petard, Grand Moff Tigellinius began subsidy programs, that all good human families could obtain a proper house slave for their own. In Bright Jewel oversector, Grand Moff Splott gave orders to hunt the feared Aznati like animals across the length and breadth of the galaxy, cheerfully signing off on the casualty reports as his forces landed whole regiments of troops on the homeworld of the immortal vampiric assassins.

And on Ryloth, fathers sharpened their knives and mothers gathered their children close to listen to the old stories, the bitter lessons on how to run free when the world wanted you in chains, how to play along and smile in the face of pain and, above all else, how to survive. And all of them, every last one, waited to see what their Grand Moff would do next.

Article:

Few cultures have suffered as much from slavery as the Twi'leks, and to know that that kind of blood money has reached as far as the Senate sickens me. I say throw the leeches out of office, and then let them have a taste of the shackles themselves!

Your father's words, those. We had our differences, he and I, but on this one thing not even I will call him false. Now he is gone, and the withered monster you call an Emperor gloats over his grave.

You will see your father again one day, Lorn. When that day comes, as it does for all of us sooner or later, what will you say to him?

• Unsigned communique, displayed on the private terminal of Grand Moff Lorn Vree Taa

 

[Wade Garrett]

Lorn prowls the halls of the Capitol Palace, not with any particular destination in mind, he just needs to move, to give himself the illusion that he's doing something. It's a bit difficult on the aides, advisers, administrators, and security troopers that have to jog to keep up, but he is the Grand Moff of the Oversector and in these circumstances he is entitled to be less than considerate of others.

"-full investigation, he obviously has agents among the staff but we'll find out how security was breached and-"

"No." There's a collective flinch as he speaks, and he wonders. Orn Free Taa was legendarily vindictive, cross him and you could count on seeing not just your political prospects go up in flames but those of your relatives, friends, business partners, Orn could have certainly cowed the crowd but the fear rising up from them...Lorn is fairly certain he's a calm, reasonable man, yes, he had to earn his respect, had to make the Red Tails Oversector amenable to his lead but he hasn't, he wouldn't, most of them, almost all of them are family, he wouldn't-

"Yes, he breached my security. Yes, he could have tried to kill me. And he did not. Not this time. And so we aren't going to add another complication to all of the other...complications we're trying to resolve by dragging in everyone working in the palace and interrogating them."

"Uncle L-Grand Moff, do you really think-"

"Yes, he tried to kill your grandfather. He tried to kill your grandfather. Not me. Not your aunt. Not your grandmother...any of your grandmothers. This is old Twi'lek business, there are rules and customs to this, and whatever else he is, General Syndulla is an old fashioned man." The Grand Moff's lips twitch upwards in what everyone in the impromptu jogging team knows better than believe is a smile.

"He's observing the formalities, and one in particular...all of you really should brush up on your clan feuding, it's all likely to be relevant very soon but the one the General is practicing now, there's more than one way to kill."

"You think he'll use blades instead of a blaster this time?"

Lorn stops in his tracks, turning to face the human bodyguard who spoke, ignoring the frantic juking and jostling as men and women perform whatever feats of acrobatics they must to have avoid running headlong into their Grand Moff, each one turning to face the bodyguard once they've finally come to a halt. The young man swallows under the collective stare, he's the...son of the gamekeeper at Norn's easternmost villa, Lorn nods to himself as he properly places the mustachioed youth in the great web of family and friends he inherited from his father, and this time Taa's smile is genuine.

"Not quite, son. Not quite. The one I mean...there's more than one way to kill a man. Kill his physical body, with a blaster, blades, we all know that one..." and Lorn clenches a fist and taps it against his chest. "Or you can kill his spirit. His soul. And it seems that's the fate General Syndulla has chosen for me."

"He'll use Jedi sorcery, sir?"

One long step to bridge the gap between them. One solid, gristle covered arm wrapping around shoulders with clubbing force. And a long, penetraring look at the young man's face, before Lorn begins to walk again, almost dragging the hapless security officer with him.

"No son. Not like that. Pay attention now, this all starts...it starts before the Republic, back when the Taas and Syndullas thought Ryloth was all there was-"

 

[EarthScorpion]

Long, looming, the SSD Resplendent cut its way through the star-streaked hyperspace. Though the Resplendent was a relic of the Clone Wars, a late war prototype design that barely qualified as an SSD these days, made to fight a foe that didn't exist anymore, it could still serve.

In his personal quarters, another relic of the Clone Wars nurses a brandy as he reads reports on the riots in and wishes that he was dead.

Wait. No. Wishes that one very specific other person was dead.

"Bloody Byurroq-Raht," Grand Moff Inderion Hargrad groans, and takes a slug of brandy. He doesn't have a drinking problem, because he's not going to run out any time soon. "Raht by name, rat by nature. Sneaking this in by the back door. Damned Southern Grand Moffs."

There is something he doesn't say out loud, not even in his personal cabin, and that is this - even a couple of years ago, the Senate meant you got warning of things like this. Yes, sometimes new laws would come down the pipeline awfully quickly if it was something that the Emperor or Tarkin wanted, but there was a difference between even cursory debate and... and this. Sprung on him when most of his focus was on dealing with a damned traitor allied with evil spiders. Back in the old days of... two years ago, he had people in Coruscant who kept an eye on the Senate docket and flagged him of everything that might have had an impact.

But now, these days? Damn this. Damn him. This was going to make his life harder. This was going to cause all kinds of problems. And he didn't get why it was a thing.

(This was the sort of thing the damned Confederates stood for, not the Republic - nope, another thought not to vocalise or even think too loudly)

Shaking his head, he downs his brandy, and shudders. If the Emperor wants it, that's his Imperial Majesty's orders. Orders are orders. If orders aren't followed, chaos ensues. Presumably chaos that's different from the chaos that's happening right now because of that damn'd rat's big idea. Worse chaos.

If orders aren't followed, chaos ensues.

He needs to send orders back to Golden Nyss, and his office. He can't let things get out of control when he's trying to deal with the traitor Ravik. Make sure that the implementation of this new law is handled correctly. Can't rush it and look bad in front of the Emperor. Deal with it next planning cycle, not now.

And put Moff Konteen in charge of the implementation until the next planning cycle while keeping his hands clean - because, of course, he's just following the Emperor's orders to destroy the traitor Ravik. And she's not part of his faction. And she'll arrange enrich herself and her allies doing so.

---

+++ SECRET / GM +++
FROM: HARGRAD, INDERION
TO: KONTEEN, ISRA
RE: SHACKLE LAW RESPONSE

Moff Konteen

As a mark of the great respect I have for your talents in the field of industrial development and economic resourcing, you are hereby delegated responsibility for implementation of the Shackle Law. Your implementation will be an interim measure until I am free from the current situation, but if I am pleased with what I see, then I expect to approve your orders largely unchanged. I have complete trust in your skills to capably and quickly implement this in a way best suited to our empire's ways of order, discipline, and efficiency. I see great things in your future if you are able to manage this transition in line with the best teachings of the New Order.

Yours sincerely,

Inderion Hargrad

+++ END MESSAGE +++

---

+++ SECRET / PRIVATE +++
FROM: HARGRAD, INDERION
TO: HARGRAD, KARLA
RE: SHACKLE LAW RESPONSE

I've put Konteen in charge of the Shackle Law implementation.

This is what I've told her:

+ As a mark of the great respect I have for your talents in the field
+ of industrial development and economic resourcing, you are
+ hereby delegated responsibility for implementation of the
+ Shackle Law. Your implementation will be an interim measure
+ until I am free from the current situation, but if I am pleased with
+ what I see, then I expect to approve your orders largely
+ unchanged. I have complete trust in your skills to capably and
+ quickly implement this in a way best suited to our empire's ways
+ of order, discipline, and efficiency. I see great things in your
+future if you are able to manage this transition in line with the
+ best teachings of the New Order.

DO NOT involve yourself in this personally. DO NOT publicly protest at anything Konteen does, but contact me if she exceeds the parameters of my orders and make sure you get copies of everything. DO NOT invest in any companies benefiting from Konteen's decisions.

I was furious at your sister's shenanagins, but they're a blessing now. It'll keep her out of this mess. She'd just make it worse.

+++ END MESSAGE +++

 

[Maugan Ra]

The Charon Campaign

War! For the first time in a generation, the Galactic Empire was faced with a foe willing and able to meet it upon the battlefield, an external enemy against which all their endless fleets could be fielded without reservation or excuse. That the Charon - as they had named themselves in the testimonies of refugees fleeing the southern sectors - were so blatantly nonhuman and inimical to life itself merely improved upon the ideal they represented to those officers who had hungered so fervently for glory upon the field.

Fully half of the Grand Admirals committed themselves to the war effort in one form or another, while moffs from as far away as the northern rim allocated forces. What they did not volunteer, Supreme Commander Shacklemorr saw fit to take, issuing directives that stripped the fleets and army garrisons of five separate oversectors perilously close to exhaustion. These forces he commanded to assemble in his own stomping grounds of Iron Lance, where even the expansions made to the preexisting facilities struggled to support the monumental gathering of ships and men. No few commanders used such difficulties as pretext for suggesting independent commands, but Shacklemorr's will was as iron - all forces in the theatre would answer to his command, or be assumed traitors in league with Ravik and fired upon in turn.

Perhaps seeking to avoid such entanglements, several imperial factions contributing to the war effort elected to focus on non-military support. The offer of vast quantities of bacta and other medical supplies from Grand Moff Fauma was expected, but somewhat more surprising was the decision by Grand Moff Shrike of Oversector Two to focus on the creation of a merchant marine. Corellia's shipyards had never been able to match the grand industrial might of Kuat or Fondor, nor rival them for capital ship production, but they were well placed to produce a great many lighter ships with a modest degree of armament - the perfect materials for a merchant marine, first to secure the vast resources necessary for a galactic war, and perhaps in years to come far more.

Others focused on more defensive works, correctly intuiting the minimal care Shacklemorr had for such undertakings at the best of times. Ivory Fang Command was the most notable example of such trends, being away from the immediate front lines but potentially close enough to be threatened by an unexpected breakthrough, and with the aid of Grand Admiral Grant, Byurroq-Raht began a great expansion of fortifications and supply depots at key points across his oversector, along with the necessary preparations to take in great quantities of refugees. The fact that a great many of the officers necessary for such development came from those who had recently lost out in naval politics as a result of Shacklemorr's shifting ambitions was noted by those in the know, but generally dismissed as being of any import - all knew that Grand Moff Byurroq-Raht was a joyless and pragmatic soul, and would take his recruits from anywhere he could get them without thinking any more of it.

But what of the enemy, the mysterious Charon? Broadly arachnid in form, with durasteel-sundering claws and thick plates of chitinous armour, the baseline form of the species made for fearsome combatants, able to wield advanced technology or wade into the bloody melee with equal aplomb, but more striking by far were their ships. At first suspected to be some form of domesticated voidlife, post-battle dissections swiftly revealed that the warships of the Charon as much grown as made, sticky black organic matter spun into shape around a reinforced core. Though they seemed to employ relatively few capital class ships, their ships came in such numbers as to darken the stars, discharging great bolts of exotic radiation to scour the life from all that opposed them.

Far more repulsive than the Charon themselves, however, was what they did to their captured foes. The sleek triangular forms of Hook Nebula Star Destroyers were encountered more than once, despoiled by hideous cancer-like growths of metal and void-black flesh, lurching across the stars like mindless drones driven before the advancing waves of Charon warships. And as the monstrous form of the once-human Grand Moff Ravik so ably demonstrated, the Charon were by no means limited to ships alone for their dark alchemy.

The early stages of the war were marked by a string of vicious Imperial defeats and forced withdrawals, largely precipitated by the Charon's unexpected strategic manoeuvrability. Their bio-metallic warships did not, it seemed, traverse the stars by hyperdrive as did virtually all known sentients, but instead through some strange gravitic drive that allowed them to leap from one star to the next in quick succession. Despite this, their deployments never ranged terribly far from captured territory, a hesitance that initial analysis believed spoke of some fundamental limitation in their technology, such as the necessity of a sufficiently massive stellar body (with associated gravity well) in the target system for their drive systems to use as a reference point. By the time that the Imperial war machine had fully mobilised, then, such capabilities had been taken into account and properly accounted for. Consequently, the war swiftly settled into an almost conventional affair, with three primary fronts developing along the borderlines of Hook Nebula's neighbouring oversectors.

First among these fronts, and consequently one of the hardest fought, was the border with Night Hammer Oversector. While Grand Moff Vikal was not present for the majority of the war, being preoccupied on Coruscant, he had left strict instructions for a staggered withdrawal from much of the eastern oversector, evacuating the populace towards the well developed and easily defended core, to be paired with a staggered advance into Hook Nebula with heavy logistical support to seize key systems and construct defence in depth. By law his authority in such matters was unquestioned and absolute, the path of the war his to decide, but in practice Vikal commanded relatively modest loyalty and even less faith among the soldiers and voidsmen of Night Hammer Command.

Thalassia Tarkin, widow of the late Wilhuff and now matriarch of the Clan, commanded by contrast a degree of respect that verged on reverence. Returning to her native Eriadu in its time of need, an entire army group of 'professional volunteers' and the intensely charismatic Lorn Vree Taa at her back, she exhorted the loyal men and women of the Imperial Military to remember her husband, and with his iron will in their hearts yield not one step to the foul alien menace that now threatened their homes.

Article:

Carlo Vikal rolls 6, 4 and 1 to enforce his strategy.

Lorn Vree Taa rolls 8, 4 and 8.

Night Hammer chooses to follow the Tarkin name once again.

The matriarch's words landed as seeds upon fertile ground, and with proud salutes and savage grins the officers of the Imperial Navy turned their ships away from evacuation convoys and towards the front, while on a hundred worlds Army regiments open their armouries and dug in alongside patriotic and desperate civilians of all stripes. These were their homes, and Grand Moff's commands or not, they would be damned if they surrendered them without a fight.

What followed was brutality equal to any the Empire had ever seen, monstrous Charon warforms brawling in the mud with stormtroopers and militia while battleships exchanged fire in the skies overhead. On every world and star the fighting burned like a fire, and where it blazed hottest one could inevitably find the great and good of the relief effort, Lorn Vree Taa leading the charge in person with blades in hand and scarred pectorals wet with alien ichor. The holorecordings of his mad valour propelled the Grand Moff to celebrity status Empire wide within the week, but to all appearances Lorn cared not - while there were yet enemies to fight, he had no greater cause than this world, this battle, this square foot of bloodstained dirt.

The second front of the war lay along the border that divided Hook Nebula from Red Tails Oversector, or perhaps more accurately, along the hyperlanes that connected the two. This was where Supreme Commander Shacklemorr planned to fight the key battles of the war, and so this was where the majority of his mustered force was deployed - though even then, perhaps half of it was held back, used to refresh garrisons and shore up morale among his own Iron Lance command. When questioned on the priorities on display, Shacklemorr merely insisted on proper preparation for the decisive victories he had planned, relying on a series of lightning raids and limited offensives to keep the Charon on the back claw until he was ready. That such tactics allowed him to rotate commanders through the front and carefully portion out the glory of active battlefield command was a secondary but welcome benefit.

Perhaps most notable of the commanders involved in this front of the war were Inderion Hargrad and Rursmurler Splott, albeit for different reasons. The Grand Moff of Golden Nyss had come in person in hopes of reliving his glory days, and while the lightning war tactics of his Supreme Commander were frustrating compared to the hoped-for relentless advance for which the old guard of the navy were famed, Hargrad's personal insight won him a string of victories that would look good on any resume. He had particular success in operations against the subverted forces of Hook Nebula command, more than a few of which surrendered without fighting or turned upon their Charon allies in penitent suicide attacks after Hargrad opened communications with their commanding officers.

Rursmurler Splott, by contrast, spent much of the war actively frustrated by his lack of success. He wanted so badly to impress his twin idols, Lorn vree Taa and Darth Vader, but his father's forces were far more interested in looting battlefield debris and obtaining live captives than in achieving battlefield glory, and despite his parentage he was painfully aware of his inexperience in contrast to those of his peers. Still, he did at least manage to join his personal command to a 'cavalry raid' of hopeful firebrands from Red Tails Command, making the acquaintance of Kyorn Scee Taa and Barnabus Tarkin in the process.

By far the most significant front of the war effort, however, was the border with Chrome Shield Oversector. Grand Moff Krietten knew full well that he was under close scrutiny for his lackluster performance of late, and with the arrival of no less intimidating a personage than Darth Vader to observe his efforts he knew it would take exceptional efforts to redeem his name and reputation. Well, so be it! Bif Krietten would rise to the occasion, and the whole galaxy would see him do it.

With intense fervour the Grand Moff threw himself into his preparations, cracking down on internal corruption and conscripting enough civilian transport to form the industrial backbone of his war effort, while personally taking to the gladiatorial cages alongside Darth Vader to sharpen his old skills and regain his old shape. He dreamed of a supporting but no less glorious role in the war to come, leading from the front as his forces leaped in to support those of his peers and superiors, blasters blazing and holocameras rolling. It would be difficult, dangerous and intensely stressful, but he was confident that he could pull it off, and certain that nothing less than greatness would suffice to win his way back into favour.

Supreme Commander Shacklemorr had other plans.

With merciless efficiency, requisition agents descended on Chrome Shield oversector, stripping every world and depot of its supplies and resources with locust-like speed, while orders from on high came down to nine in every ten ships and army formations in the oversector to decamp from their current positions and report to new mustering grounds in Iron Lance. Krietten protested the loss, of course, - how was he to defend the oversector with a tenth of his regular forces, much less support any counter offensives? The Supreme Commander did not deign to respond, and with a slowly dawning sense of horror, Krietten began to realise just what it was that Shacklemorr meant for him to do instead.

The arrival of Grand Moff Fauma provoked one brief moment of hope, the ships and supplies he brought surely enough to make a fight of it, but such feelings swiftly proved premature. The Grand Moff of Emerald Banner had no interest in the wider war or in assisting his peer, instead advancing to the Naboo system and no further. There he would stay, the patriotic defender of the Emperor's own homeworld, and no entreaty or command would move him further. And so Bif Krietten found himself defending the key system of Farstine with a single flotilla of star destroyers and two regiments of ground forces, his only ally the ominous form of Darth Vader.

The Charon armada that arrived from the galactic south outnumbered the defenders by more than ten to one.

Krietten could have fled, then. It is important to understand that. He could have boarded a fast shuttle, commandeered a star destroyer, and fled the system. Yet he did not. Nobody knows why, though theories would of course abound. Some speculated that he felt trapped, knowing that Darth Vader would take his head the moment he took a single step back. Others pointed to the tens of thousands of Chrome Shield's citizens that fled beyond the reach of the Charon with every minute held as the justification. A few cynical souls pointed to the presence of the holocameras, the mass media coverage arranged by Krietten's own hand, and suggested that he preferred the death of his body to the total obliteration of public cowardice.

The last man to see him alive and live was Darth Vader, who reappeared at Naboo in a half-ruined Star Destroyer a week later, his dark armour pitted and scarred. He said little of the Grand Moff, nor of any other who had fought beside him during that campaign.

The last recorded proof of Grand Moff Krietten's life came eighty two hours after the invasion began, in a live broadcast from a foxhole on the outskirts of Farstine Spaceport. He gave a brief speech to his soldiers, shared a final round from the last remaining canteens, and led them over the top.