FAILURE

There is always a cost to failure.

—Ancient Sith proverb

Imperial Center, Core Worlds, 0 ABY

The ISB's main office was unassuming. Just a tall, monolithic skyscraper that had been appropriated from the now-defunct Republic Domestic Security. The only unusual thing about the main office was the lack of any kind of windows on the lower levels.

An internal security service large enough to terrorize a galaxy needed more clerks than field agents, and Colonel Hiram Flynn knew that most of those lower levels were filled with armies of typists and analysts instead of the torture chambers civilians assumed were there.

No, the torture chambers were on Centax-3, one of Coruscant's four moons—it was better to keep that sort of thing out of sight . . . but not too far out of sight.

The air taxi pulled away from the landing pad, leaving him to make the long walk to the 'front door' of the administrative levels.

A receptionist—an actual living one, and not a droid programmed to be artificially pleasant—looked up and smiled at his approach. He didn't recognize her, but it was clear from her smile that she had recognized him.

"Colonel," the receptionist said. "It's so nice to see you again."

Despite the very real danger he might be facing once he reported in person, he smiled in return. The electronic report of his pursuit of the mysterious 'mover and shaker'—who had turned out to be none other than Grand Admiral Thrawn (KIA)—had been forwarded from Kuat, and had arrived on Imperial Center a week before Flynn.

"It's nice to see you too, miss," Flynn said, trying to remember if he knew her, and, if so, what her name was. "I have an appointment with Deputy Director Ison in twelve minutes . . . if you could send me in his direction, I would appreciate it."

She gave him an odd look, and he smiled slightly. It must have seemed odd for a full colonel to be asking directions to an office that he'd been to hundreds of times before, but she did as asked, and directed him toward the lift.

If not for the slightest bit of hesitation when she said 'the Deputy Director's office,' Flynn wouldn't have been more suspicious than usual.

Deputy Director Tonor Ison leaned back in his chair, hoping against hope that that bashard wouldn't make it to his office. His current office, that was. Not the one he'd resided in for the last three years, that now held four 'malfunctioning' assassination droids waiting for an ISB colonel.

The tradition of the two men trying to kill one another was as old as it was complicated. They'd been jockeying for positions that the other held for nearly all of their time in the ISB, and the turbulent working relationship had resulted in vibroblades in the dark, plasma bolts fired by snipers on neighboring skyscrapers, and one Noghri assassin team loaned by Vader.

The Noghri team had never made it back, and Ison had barely managed to escape Vader's wrath for losing an invaluable, highly-trained strike team. 'Barely' had involved the removal of an ear via a plasma blade.

After the Noghri Incident, Ison had been careful to never get his hopes too high, especially when they involved the infuriating ISB colonel.

There was a chime from his comlink, and he pressed down on one of the studs. "Yes?" he asked.

"There's a Colonel Flynn to see you, sir," his secretary said.

Sighing, he said, "Send him in."

The front door opened, letting the sound of delighted laughter from his secretary in. She was laughing at something Flynn was saying, and Ison silently bit down to keep himself from letting too much irritation show.

Flynn entered the office a moment later, letting the secretary close the door behind him. The man was smiling slightly, his short frame taking up little of the doorway. His blunt, nondescript features were all amused.

"Only four?" he asked cheekily, sitting down in a free chair without an invitation. "You're slowing down." The flap of his sidearm's holster was unbuttoned.

"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about."

"Of course not," Flynn agreed pleasantly.

Ison stifled a grimace. Then leveled a look at his guest. "What happened?" he demanded. "On Hoth."

Flynn looked confused for a moment. "Well, for one thing, there was a rather big battle. That was mostly Admiral Fletcher's doing, though—I was mostly along for the ride on that one."

"Why didn't you get Thrawn?" The words were blunt and heavy.

"Because I never had the opportunity. By the time I was combing their 'Dorn Base' he was on a transport heading out of the system—besides, I wasn't aware it was even him, at the time."

"I find that a little hard—" Ison cut himself off at the sound of his comlink chiming. Grumbling slightly, he picked it up. "Yes?" he snapped.

"Send Colonel Flynn to my office," came the curt response, before the line clicked dead. Ison had paled just slightly at the voice's unique, half-synthetic inflection. He had just snapped at the man who routinely made political dissidents disappear to camps that would give Hell a good run for its money.

Still, even as he thought about the possible later ramifications for that mistake, he smiled slightly. "Looks like you finally karked up, Flynn," he said. "Director Sollaine wants to see you."

Director Sollaine was a tall, thin creature who looked less like a man than a cold instrument of death. The talon-like prosthetic hands resting on his desk and glinting in the light from outside his window certainly added to the intimidating effect. Instead of covering them with synthflesh, he'd left them bare and metallic—the ends coming to sharp needles, like a surgeon's scalpels.

"Colonel." The one-word greeting carried no tonal inflection, though a false smile played around his lips. He didn't offer Flynn a seat, and, unlike in Ison's office, the colonel didn't take the liberty of sitting without an invitation. Instead, he nodded respectfully, wisely remaining silent and standing.

"Failure always has a cost," Sollaine quoted, letting the words hang in the air. "You uncovered the new force behind the Alliance, but failed to kill him. That is a failure that will have consequences." He lifted one hand, studying the servos in the prosthetic with gray eyes. "Were you aware that we have no direct communication with the Outer Rim, right now, Colonel?"

"No, Director."

Sollaine made a sound like a verbal shrug. "Thrawn's doing. Over eighty hypercomm and HoloNet relay station in the Mid Rim have been destroyed, and without those links we have no idea what the current strategic situation in the Rim is. . . . You can tell Naval Intelligence is skragging itself; this is the first time they've ever admitted to not knowing something."

"This is Thrawn, sir; the situation'll be bad."

"Indeed," Sollaine agreed. "Billions of Imperial citizens very well may die before he is brought to heel. Because you failed." He looked right at Flynn. "I might have been compelled to offer you the chance to finish the job, but the Emperor has already given that task to someone more worthy."

Flynn didn't ask who, though he guessed it was either Vader or one of the Emperor's Hands.

"Why shouldn't I kill you, Colonel?"

The threat chilled Flynn, but he kept his face neutral through force of will. "I don't know why you would, Director."

Sollaine chuckled—it was a raw, humorless thing. "Perhaps to motivate all the other hot-shot troubleshooters to not bite off more than they could chew—as you did. Perhaps because I've grown tired of watching Ison fail to kill you for years."

The last reason made Flynn chuckle, though it was a stressed, uncharacteristically false-sounding thing.

Sollaine shook his head. "Those assassin droids in his office?" He made a tutting sound. "Amateurish. If he wasn't the son of Moff Ison, I'd have let you kill him a long time ago—there are painfully few uses for an amateur in this business, after all.

"But you knew I wasn't going to kill you when you walked in here, didn't you, Colonel?" Sollaine asked.

"Yes, Director," Flynn lied.

"Good. Do you know why?" he asked, before continuing on without waiting for an answer. "Because Thrawn will make anyone look like a fool, no matter how capable they are—and because you came closer than anyone I can remember to actually taking him; even when you didn't know who you faced."

Closer than you could imagine, Flynn thought to himself, remembering the feel of his sidearm as he leveled it at Thrawn's back.

"But, as I said earlier; failure always has a cost." He smiled a little, this time genuinely, as if he was anticipating what was coming.

Sollaine stood up, walking to where Flynn was standing, and seizing one of the Colonel's arms in one of his metallic hands. Flynn winced as he felt the talons cut through the cloth of his uniform, cutting into his skin, but didn't move. Blood wet the inside of his uniform sleeve, soaking the cloth until it stuck to his flesh. Sweat appeared on his brow, the pain throbbing, though he forced his expression to remain level.

He knew, though, that the Director hadn't even begun. He could hear capacitors in the prosthetic begin charging; a slow, evil whine that filled him with dread.

"Don't worry, Colonel," Sollaine said, mimicking a doctor's speech. "This won't hurt at all."

It did.