OCTAVIAN GRANT

And so it truly began.

—From The Thrawn Campaign: 0 ABY—1 ABY
by Grand Admiral Octavian Grant, IN, Retired

Kuat Orbit, Core Worlds, 0 ABY

"We have waited long enough," the second of the two Dark Lords of the Sith said, his deep, baritone synthesizer giving the words a dark slant. "The Emperor's will shall be denied no longer."

Octavian Grant, the man tasked with hunting down and killing his old comrade, looked up from the flimsi-work arrayed across his desk as the Dark Lord burst into his quarters.

"Thrawn's doing an excellent job of denying his will, I would think," he said wryly, glancing back down to his flimsi-work.

Vader's breathing didn't falter, or in any way shift from its even rhythm, but Grant could sense the sudden, raw anger emanating from the cyborg. "The Emperor has commanded you to sortie within the day," he said. He unclipped his lightsaber, and ignited it with a snap-hiss. "I will command this armada, if you refuse to." The threat was reinforced by the smell of ozone from the blade of superheated plasma.

Grant refused to let any of his fear show on his face, or to let it rule his mind. "I will do as my Emperor commands," he said. "Always."

The blade collapsed back into the lightsaber, and Vader returned it to his belt. Without a word, Vader turned and stalked from Grant's quarters.

Grant watched the swirling cape drag along the decking, until the Dark Lord was gone. He shook his head, and returned his attention to the communiqué in front of him. Vader's arrival and threat were hardly unexpected, even before the message from Imperial Center had found its way into his hands.

The Emperor had commanded him to proceed with his campaign with all haste in a tersely-worded communiqué, and then commanded Vader to threaten him. That the Emperor was frightened, was the only conclusion he could reach.

Palpatine was also famous for creating feuds among his subjects, if only to keep them too occupied with destroying each other to bother trying to kill him, and he wondered if he was trying to incite one between him and Vader. It was certainly a hell of a time for infighting.

If the threat was meant to start a feud, then the Emperor would be disappointed. Grant would carry out his duty, and not step on Vader's toes—if he still had any—when it came to the Third Oversector Army. Vader might take that as a sign of weakness, but if he tried to extend his grasp into the Fourth Oversector Group he would find Grant far from weak.

But the order to sortie was only half of the Emperor's communiqué.

She was shorter than he'd expected an Emperor's Hand to be. The woman was clad in a dark, utilitarian tunic, with an equally dark cloak that seemed typical for servants of the Emperor. The cloak covered her head, but her face was visible, framed by locks of auburn hair.

Grant did not bow to her as she descended the ramp of the Lambda-class shuttle; a grand admiral bowed to only the Emperor. Instead, he studied her with passive gray eyes as she drew nearer. He was not as observant as his old comrade Thrawn, but he could tell that this woman—this Emperor's Hand—was dangerous.

"Grand Admiral Grant," the Hand said. She was just a few feet from Grant, her jade-green eyes boring into his. He returned her gaze evenly. "I am Mara Jade."

Grant inclined his head at her name. "Jade," he said by way of greeting. "An Emperor's Hand will be given whatever support required, of course."

"I will require little assistance, Grand Admiral," she said. "Merely a captured Rebel transport with adequate endurance."

"I'm sure they have several hundred—if not thousands—on Imperial Center," Grant said, his gaze neither unfriendly or welcoming to this agent of the Emperor. He already had Vader to deal with, and didn't need another hanger-on from the Imperial Court in his hair.

She simply smiled at his words, and walked past him. The hangar had been cleared and secured for her arrival, and Stormtroopers stood guard at the closed hatchways. "The Emperor has commanded me to coordinate my mission in tandem with your campaign," she said.

"I understand," he said.

"No, you really don't." She stopped, turning to look at him again. "I've been ordered to kill Thrawn."

He stopped as well, and something must have slipped from behind his dispassionate mask.

"That angers you?" she asked, her tone hard to read.

"No," he lied. "He's a traitor, and deserves far worse than death."

She nodded, but frowned at him; studying him with a sudden burst of scrutiny.

It was a sight unlike anything the galaxy had witnessed. The number of Imperial Navy warships that had rallied at Kuat had nearly doubled in the last week, leaving Grant in command of an armada that numbered over six thousand.

Forty dreadnoughts, new and old, made up the core of the formation, nearly half of the Navy's number of the massive ships. A thousand star destroyers, Imperial, Victory, Venator, and Interdictor-class now formed a wall of ships so wide it took half a light-minute for orders to be transmitted by conventional means. And the remaining thousands of vessels cruised as pickets and escorts, looking like gnats swarming around giants.

"A beautiful sight," Grant said. No one answered his comment, for the bridge of the Sword of Anaxes was his, and his alone, with the Dark Lord Vader nowhere in sight. Mara Jade had disappeared from his world as well, having secluded herself inside her quarters.

"Signal Officer," Grant commanded, turning to look into the crew pit, at a harried-looking individual. "Give me a fleet-wide channel."

The officer nodded, and a moment later Grant's comlink chimed, notifying him that he was broadcasting.

"Spacers and officers of His Imperial Majesty's Navy, now hear this," he said slowly. "Today is a day unlike any before, and the likes of which will likely never come again. An armada that challenges the power of the stars themselves has been assembled at this place." His speech was only just now making it to the mid-wings of the formation, it was so vast. "Our goal, given to us by the Emperor himself; destroy the Rebellion." He let the words hang.

"We are the finest spacers in the history of the galaxy, aboard the finest vessels, with the most intensive training. None can stand before us. Not the Rebellion, not upjumped alien scum from the Outer Rim, and most certainly not any one man. Stand to your stations, and may you bring honor to the uniform you wear." He signaled the channel to be cut, and then blew out a stream of air. He hated speeches—and knew he was hardly the most eloquent orator.

The Rebellion would not stand, he knew, and the Outer Rim would not either, but Thrawn might. He shook his head slowly, and turned from the observation ports.

Grant turned to look at the flag captain, and he nodded his head slowly. The flag captain nodded in return.

"Sync tac-nets for hyperspace jump," the flag captain ordered. Half a minute later he said, "Execute jump orders."

One-tenth of a billion Imperial spacers, and nearly that number of ground-pounders, streaked into hyperspace, hurtling toward the one planet that Grant knew Thrawn couldn't afford to ignore. A little binary star system known as Dac.

THE END OF PART ONE