Tarkin glanced over the datapad again, not slowing his stride. He couldn't bring himself to believe it.
"It's too convenient. Too clean, too obvious."
"Governor, please," Yularen implored him, slowing as if they should stop and discuss the matter. "This source is highly competent, an asset of the highest confidence. We must treat the threat as credible."
They passed through a hallway junction, the cross traffic of some Destroyer crew halted by the Deathtrooper pair at the fore of their escort.
"An attack on Corellia is not feasible," Tarkin insisted, refusing to slow and forcing Yularen to briefly jog to fall back into step. "The Executor won't be combat ready for weeks still to come, nor will they yet have access to most of the forces they would need to seize such a prominent target."
"And yet, Governor, we have reports of Imperial-design ships being sighted entering the Karvoss system." Yularen splayed his hands, as if presenting the obvious on a platter. "Clearly, they are massing a fleet within easy striking distance of Corellia."
"A part of the ruse, Colonel. It is not a rational choice." Tarkin handed the datapad back to Yularen. "This 'EmComReIS' must be, by necessity, a guerrilla force. Such a conventional engagement – an open battle with an entrenched force – is categorically not in keeping with Thrawn's methodology."
Yularen exhaled sharply. "Then perhaps, Governor, you should entertain the notion that Thrawn is not commanding the enemy forces."
"Wullf," Tarkin snapped, immediately coming to a stop and bringing both Yularen and their four deathtrooper escorts to a halt. "We will not waste more time debating Thrawn's loyalties."
"Governor," Yularen began his tone one of supplication. "I suggest you view such an attack as strategized by Admiral Motti. Such a bold assault would be perfectly in keeping with his style of command."
"Exactly as Thrawn would want it to appear."
Yularen did not respond, but the expression on his face spoke volumes. He thought Tarkin was paranoid.
"Problem, Wullf?" Tarkin asked.
"No, Governor; none at all." The Colonel caught his expression and was quick to conceal it.
"Excellent." Tarkin turned and resumed their journey. "Then we'll hear no more of this foolishness."
He had only made about two steps before Yularen spoke again, almost seeming to blurt it out.
"But respectfully, Supreme Moff, I must disagree."
Tarkin stopped dead again, turning sharply on his heel to face the Colonel again. His expression was stony, unrelenting.
Yularen appeared regretful, but pushed on regardless. "Governor, Imperial intelligence is my purview, and this mass desertion has presented innumerable opportunities to plant as many sleeper agents and spies within the insurgency as they have within Imperial ranks."
Wullf took a step closer. He held his hands open toward Tarkin, this time as a gesture of conciliation. "I am asking you, Wilhuff, to please consider my expertise in this matter. I have seen no reports indicating Grand Admiral Thrawn has joined the insurgency. We cannot continue disregarding very clear intelligence under the rationale that it is all part of an elaborate counterintelligence play by a man that – by all accounts – is nowhere to be found amongst the insurrection's forces."
Tarkin regarded Yularen for a moment longer, gaze cool. "Then where is he, Wullf? Has he answered your hails?"
Yularen paused. "…no, sir, but his posting is remote with limited access to the holonet. I have contacted Captain Pelleaon at his regular station, and he reports the Grand Admiral is engaged in anti-piracy operations deeper into the region."
"Indeed?" Tarkin quirked an eyebrow and let the question hang.
After another long pause, Yularen furrowed his brow and looked down. "I will advise you when I am contacted back by either the Grand Admiral or Captain Pellaeon."
"Of course." Tarkin beckoned for the Colonel to follow once more. "Now, shall we?"
"Yes, Governor." Yularen fell into step as they continued through the halls of the Star Destroyer.
Though Tarkin expected they would lapse into an uneasy silence the rest of the way to the detention centre. The Colonel, however, seemed to have other ideas.
"To a matter of wider import," he began, "Motti's insurrection is a real concern for Imperial stability, governor, in large part because of its stronger sense of legitimacy."
"Legitimacy," Tarkin replied, voice flat.
"Yes, sir. Take those systems we have previously discussed; the ones which will revolt and join the Rebellion following the dissolution of the Imperial Senate. Those are systems that under the current circumstances would have been lost regardless, but now increase their number by some appreciable percent – ten, fifteen, twenty, we won't know exactly for some time. Those are the systems that might have been too wary of an Imperial reprise to commit to such a course. This internal insurrection, however, serves as an indicator of increasing Imperial instability - a sign that they must make their move now while the Empire is reeling, fracturing."
"I see…" Tarkin considered it for a moment. "And you think that systems which are too squeamish to join the Rebellion may find it easy to stomach joining an insurrection that claims to seek a restoration of the Empire's 'sacrosanctity'?"
"Indeed." Wullf nodded. "Though I doubt many outside of Coruscant itself would have much concern for what is and isn't 'sacrosanct'. We must look at more systems still that may have deep seated reservations regarding Imperial rule and certain…" he glanced at Tarkin. "…policies, but would never stoop to such an anarchic diversion as joining the Rebellion."
Tarkin offered no comment, so Yularen continued.
"But Motti offers them a different option; a new Imperial faction to rally behind, one claiming to be contiguous with the 'true spirit' of the Empire, set to righting 'wrongs', as it were – the specific perceived wrongs being a blank space those joining the movement can and will gladly fill in themselves. This "EmComReIS" makes use of Imperial trappings, featuring Imperial Star Destroyers, Imperial troops, and Imperial armaments. The movement's ideology features broadly spaced lines that can be read between to become whatever the reader wishes of them. It presents a tempting opportunity for those systems that desire change without an end to all galactic order."
"So we must fear those that think of Motti as an ideological bulwark to myself, is that it? Something in defiance of the doctrines that demanded the Death Star?." Tarkin scoffed. "Imagine seeing Motti as anything but a stubborn war hawk. We could destroy his credibility with just the abject truth of the matter."
"Perhaps Governor, and certainly some subtle propaganda efforts alerting the galaxy to that fact could yield strong returns, but I don't think we should do any more than that."
"And why is that?"
"Well, Supreme Moff, to openly use Motti's strong convictions in the viability of Project Stardust against him would also, in effect, be a disavowement of Stardust itself. Considering the prevailing public sentiment on the matter, and that the station was your own passion project from near the beginning until the end, and given your current… position-"
"Predicament."
Wullf inclined his head but did not repeat the phrase. "Well, I can hardly imagine the backlash there would be against you. Certainly, magnitudes more than would ever be directed at Motti. If handled poorly it could functionally wash out the foundation of support for not only yourself, but for the entirety of Imperial doctrine of which Stardust was a manifestation."
"You're suggesting that if we openly discuss Motti's involvement in the Death Star we would cause the collapse of the core of Imperial ideology?"
"Not so dramatic a turn of events, Governor, but a significant fallout in that spirit, yes."
"I find it hard to believe that ISB couldn't be more targeted than that." Tarkin scoffed. "Aim the information at those who need to know and be done with it. The Empire won't be dissolved by outing the insurrectionists as hypocrites."
Out of the corner of his eye, Tarkin saw a protest bloom on Yularen's face, and just as quickly die. Evidently, the Colonel had resolved to pick his battles.
The final length of their walk passed in silence, eventually arriving at the blast door that secured the entrance to the aft cell block. A pair of exterior holocams panned to track their approach, and the triple-layered slabs of durasteel parted as they neared, allowing access to the Cell block's security lock.
The moment the lock had sealed behind them, the inner blast doors opened, the widening diamond revealing a hub room. A single security guard stood at the centre console, while a pair of officers stood at the threshold of one of the branching corridors, deep in conversation while an interrogation droid hovered nearby. All in the room came to attention at the entrance of Tarkin, Yularen, and their escort.
Tarkin's eyes swept over the antechamber before landing on the two officers as they stepped forward and saluted. One was a male, dressed in the stark black uniform of security officer. The other, a female, wore a crisp white uniform that matched Yularen's; ISB Internal Affairs.
He acknowledged them with a slight nod, then turned to the security officer. "Which cell, Lieutenant?"
"The prisoner has been moved to cell 1642, Supreme Moff. It's has additional space for…" the officer's eyes flicked to the ISB officer, then back to Tarkin "…questioning, sir."
"Very good. You may return to your duties." Tarkin gave a single additional nod as the Lieutenant simultaneously side-stepped and snapped another salute. Then he turned to the ISB agent. "If you would, agent."
"Yes sir," she replied, turning on her heel leading them into the corridor. Tarkin's party followed, her interrogation droid falling in beside Yularen.
The agent led them into the claustrophobic, tunnel-like hallways that were a staple of Imperial prison centres, passing through several repetitive intersections and junctions with other hallways. The spaces were made to be intentionally labyrinthine, a tool to delay potential escape attempts from dangerous and high value prisoners that would be housed at the heart of the block.
Eventually, they rounded a corner and came into sight of a Stormtrooper pair guarding a double-wide cell door recessed into the wall. The stopped just short of it, the ISB agent stepping to the side and gesturing to it. "Here we are, Supreme Moff."
Escort Cresh stepped forward, almost shouldering past one of the and started keying in the cell access code, but paused as Tarkin turned away to inspect their accompaniment
Tarkin regarded first the interrogation droid. It was one of the infamous IT-O units, a fearsome design that was most commonly seen in the employ of ISB's Interrogations units, but which were also known to be used by the other branches as the need arose. Its perfectly polished piano-black curves were interrupted only by the vicious assortment of protruding needles that threatened to lance anyone unwitting enough to brush past the droid while it carried out its duties.
"Useful, vicious things," he noted. "I understand interrogations with IT-Os all too frequently conclude with the termination of their subject."
Yularen cleared his throat. "If we're unsuccessful, I hope you'd do me the favour of not executing the prisoner. Once remanded into indefinite custody we may still be able to extract something of use from him."
"By all means, Wullf – but you may need to take that up with Lord Vader first. I can scarcely prevent him from tearing through his own subordinates, let alone unrepentant traitors."
"Yes, so I've noticed" Yularen's face betrayed not a hint of his opinion on the matter; The sort of tactical political neutrality that enabled one to thrive in Vader's spheres of influence. The Imperial Intelligence agent, however, was not so taciturn, with visible discomfort crossing her face.
"It would, of course, be reliant on the skill of our operator." Tarkin turned his eyes to the agent, openly scrutinizing her – or rather, her expression – even as the officer hastily concealed her reaction. "And you, agent, what's your name?"
"Staff Chief Entam, Supreme Moff" She snapped a brisk salute. "ISB Internal Affairs and Interrogation."
"Internal Affairs and Interrogation? I see." Tarkin perked an eyebrow. "And you'll be taking the lead in today's expedition?"
"Yes, sir," the Officer's eyes flitted from Tarkin to Yularen, then back again. "Unless you would prefer to do so yourself."
"No, I would not." Tarkin glanced at the droid. "My specialties have not often put me at the controls of an IT-O. How many interrogations have you performed?"
"Just under four dozen, sir."
"And how many as the lead?" Tarkin pressed
The Entam blinked, surprised by the question. "Uh, just under four dozen, sir."
Tarkin's eyebrows raised slightly, and he glanced at Yularen.
The Colonel nodded briskly. "A promising officer, Governor. She's on the shortlist for Paredax." He turned a brief, steely eye toward the lieutenant, a warning to promptly forget what she had just heard.
Tarkin looked back to Entam, finding that again she was unable to feign stoicism. The shining pride in her eyes was visible for all to see. That pride might dry up once she was actually learned what Paredax was.
"On the shortlist? Then tell me, Agent. Have you performed an enhanced interrogation on a commissioned officer before?"
"Once, governor," the interrogator replied. "A Junior Lieutenant involved in a smuggler ring that was skimming weapons for the Rebellion."
"And how did you find that?"
A slight smile pulled at her face. "Challenging… but quite productive, Governor."
"Good. Then we have a greater trial yet for you to cut your teeth on." Tarkin gestured to the door. "I believe that you'll find interrogating a captain to be quite the challenge indeed. After you, Staff Chief."
On that cue, Escort Cresh keyed in the last two digits of the access code. The door slid open, revealing a spacious interrogation cell dominated by a single metal table and two utilitarian chairs. The edges of the room were cast in shadow, only the table itself illuminated by a harsh overhead spotlight. From the perspective of the room's sole occupant, he was dazzled, blind to the dark recesses outside his island of light.
Escort Aurek was first, fanning left to adopt a ready position in the far corner. Entam was next in, her IT-O following behind. Tarkin and Yularen crossed the threshold next, immediately sidestepping to take up residence in the dark left corner of the cell. Escort Cresh followed through last, moving right to mirror Aurek's positioning. Besh and Dorn remained outside with the Stormtrooper guard, the door closing between them.
Ferdas, a lean man that looked significantly worse for wear in his rumpled officer's uniform, sat at a durasteel table in the centre of the cell. His manacled hands were secured to an anchor point directly in front of him by a short, thick cable. He watched them enter through squinted eyes, unable to perceive any details outside of the spotlighting that shone directly into his eyes no matter where he looked.
Entam took the scenic route to her seat opposite the prisoner, passing behind Ferdas's back so that she could examine him from all sides. Her droid, however, made a straight line directly over the table, and in doing so paraded itself in front of the man that would soon be at its mercy. The captain showed no visible reaction to its appearance, but that was to be expected. He was putting up a tough front
The interrogator finished her observational orbit, placing her datapad down on the table and then sliding into the seat. After a moment, a new light in the cell illuminated, softer than those that shone upon Ferdas from all directions, illuminating him like a ghost in a void. It provided just enough light that Ferdas would be able to see – in a generous sense of the word – his interrogator.
"Captain Ferdas." Entam offered the prisoner a cool nod. "Or former captain Ferdas, now."
He gave her a cool, steely stare, brow furrowed against the spotlights. "I don't believe I've had the indignity." Ferdas's voice was a harsh one, coming with a rough edge to his words.
"Staff Chief Entam, ISB." Her eyes remained locked on his. "I believe you know why we're here."
"A Staff Chief?" Ferdas's was contorted with disgust. "Really? Could they not spare a Lieutenant, at least a Master Chief? Pathetic. The Empire must truly be in-"
The IT-O droid suddenly lurched forward, a loud buzz emanating from one of its nerve probes. Ferdas's voice died in his throat and his eyes flicked to the droid, but he did not flinch.
This was the groundwork for what was to come; Entam trying to steer the conversation, Ferdas immediately refusing to follow her lead, attempting to rile her emotions instead and break her focus. The droid, operating at the command of Entam's neural implant, was reversing Ferdas's tactics back on him.
"You've had a storied career, Ferdas," Entam continued. "A prestigious start, captaining the Relentless under Admiral Konstantine – is that right?"
"Is all of this really necessary?" Ferdas demanded. "This is useless preamble for what we both know is coming."
"But it was a rather sudden shift to self-actualization when he perished over Atollon…" The Staff Chief proceeded as if he hadn't interrupted, staring him dead in the eyes. "Having refused direct orders, broken formation, and subsequently sacrificed the Obligator and all hands aboard in pursuit of his hubris."
Entam paused for a loaded moment. "Now, captain, I'm sure you learned much under Admiral Konstantine – he was, as I understand, a prized mentor to you – but I believe I'm not the first to wonder if you might have learned some of the wrong lessons. Pride, insubordination, sedition, even?"
Ferdas glared back, face set as if in stone. He said nothing.
"You've been a captain for quite some time, Ferdas. It's a position many would be quite happy with, though I have on good authority that you've tried for further promotion several times. And being reassigned from the Relentless to the Reprimander… far be it from me to impugn upon a command aboard a Victory destroyer, but it's certainly a step down from commanding an Imperial destroyer. One might even describe it as a sign of ill favour, of stagnation."
"Establishing a motive, then?" Ferdas talked through lips that barely moved. His blinking was carefully regulated to a steady beat.
"Motives come later, Ferdas. Right now, I'm trying to ascertain something for my own curiosity." At Entam's prompting the IT-O began to slowly circle behind Ferdas. "Just some groundwork, like if Konstantine taught you to be a traitor while he still lived, or only after he had died and taken your career with him."
"Are you quite finished?" the captain asked, teeth clenched. "I don't know what you expect to gain from petty insults."
"Only some personal satisfaction" Entam smiled. She was lying. Ferdas did not have full gamut of resistance training afforded to someone of Tarkin's rank, and hence was unaware that he had just provided a baseline reading of his emotional responses to the IT-O droid and its operator. With that, Entam could better understand the affects she was achieving once she started applying neural probes, electroshocks, and chemical stims.
"Well, if you'd really prefer to cut the preamble, we'll begin." Entam's eyes flickered to the interrogation droid hovering ominously behind the prisoner, and Ferdas has just enough time to register her intent before several appendages lanced out from the droid's spherical body. There was a buzz of electrical contact and Ferdas jerked, gasping in pain.
Tarkin shared a glance with Yularen, eyebrow quirked. The Colonel appeared pleased. Entam has just rapidly spiked Ferdas with one, perhaps two doses of neurostims – it had been too quick to tell - but masked them with a simultaneous application of an electroschock probe. The chemicals would take effect over the next few minutes, but Ferdas would have no idea he'd even been dosed.
"The first shock is the worst – at least until I start increasing the amperage." Entam took a seat, her movements laconic. "Let's start with something easy. Who contacted you?"
"Your mother," Ferdas shot back, a few droplets of spittle spraying across his manacled arms. The IT-O's shock arm snapped out to strike the back of his head again, eliciting another gasp.
"What a story that would be," Entam intoned, unsmiling. "You can play the perfect fool when you want to, Ferdas. Now tell me, would you care to answer again, but playing a man whose life hangs in the balance?"
The IT-O's shock arm moved forward until it was within just an inch of Ferdas's neck. It buzzed ominously, tiny arcs of electricity flickering out to cross the gap and set the captain's shoulders spasming.
Entam leaned forward slightly staring down Ferdas as the he shied away from the tiny arcing shocks. "Would you care to answer again, Captain?" she repeated.
"Do you think I don't know how this works?" Ferdas demanded, his voice sounding a little hoarse as the electrical arcs caused his vocal cords to quiver. "If I rambled like a protocol droid, told you every little thing you wanted to hear, I'd still disappear into an ISB dungeon, never to be seen again."
Entam seemed to consider this for a second, then splayed both hands towards Ferdas. At the same moment, the IT-O's shock arm retracted back with a sharp click.
"Okay, sure. Then let's pretend there's no absolution, if you must." She sounded almost candid, Tarkin thought, but he also noticed that she was speaking slightly slower, dragging things out while she waited for the neurostims to set in. "Even in your strange reality where there's no such thing as leniency for compliance, you'd be saving yourself an awful lot of suffering."
Ferdas didn't answer her directly. His look was distant. "Poke and prod all you like, Staff Chief. Probe until my brain is mush, fry my nerves so I can't feel it anymore."
"But now let's talk about what your real options are here," the Staff Chief continued as if he hadn't spoken – a preference of hers, clearly, Tarkin noted. "If you co-operate, your sentence is commuted from death to life on a prison colony, perhaps even with the chance for eventual release if the information is of particular use. Give us everything we ask for and we can be more lenient still."
To Ferdas's credit, his face still betrayed nothing, despite the evidently thickening fog being cast over his mind as the neurostims took hold.
Entam leaned forward, looking almost conspiratorial. "If you, say helped us crush this farce in its infancy, we could substantiate that you were a double agent from the start. You'd retire as a hero of the Empire – obviously given the truth of the matter you could never retain your command, but that door's closed, we need to accept that and take what opportunities we still have."
"There's no version of this story that doesn't end at his black hand." The captain's hazy expression was unchanged, but he curled the fingers of one shackled hand to mimic Darth Vader's favoured means of disciplining his subordinates. "Just space me out the airlock. Let's get this over with."
Entam stayed where she was for a moment longer, an opportunity for him to reconsider, then she disengaged, sitting back in her chair. "You're in an awful position, Ferdas – and one of your own making, I should add; nobody put you here, you put yourself here. I'm giving you your out – your only out, Ferdas – and you say 'space me'. Now that just doesn't make sense. Why, Ferdas? Why would you sacrifice yourself for this pathetic coup? You're here for the opportunity, here for yourself, to forcibly reclaim what was denied by nothing but bad luck. Why are you so committed?"
It was this that finally seemed to get through Ferdas's stim-addled fog, a bright spark of rage started in his eyes that instantly blossomed across his face. He rose off his seat, still bowed over the tablet due to the manacles binding him to it.
"Because things must change!" He roared. "Because good officers doing their duty and bringing order to lawlessness, they make a single mistake and have the life throttled – they have it throttled from them!"
Entam remained silent, still, letting Ferdas work himself into a fervor.
"I have had colleagues, comrades – friends – without a blemish on their records just disappear from prestigious postings! I've seen them be replaced by subordinates with half the experience and nothing to their credit but a pointed inoculation against making one particular mistake! Diehard loyalists, Clone War veterans, connected industrialists." He jerked against his manacles, the only gesture he could make. "We bleed collective decades of training and experience over small missteps, we destroy the morale of entire sector fleets, we drive influential supporters of the regime directly to the Rebellion."
Entam leaned forward, ever so slightly. "So you see a rot at the heart of the Empire, one that you think will lead to its fall, and your response is to fell it yourself?"
"It's to excise the rot," Ferdas snapped back. "And to do it now, before the Rebellion becomes a true threat. We need the Empire, Staff Chief, we need order, an end to all this ceaseless fighting, but we need it to be better. It's diseased, plagued with a hatred for aliens that cripples its reach and sows division, infested with parasites like Vader, like Tarkin, like-"
He trailed off suddenly, a new distant quality coming into his expression.
"Like who, Captain?" Entam asked, low and monotone. Her eyes bored into his with a subdued intensity, and Tarkin saw that he didn't advert his own gaze, almost like he was mesmerised. "Like the Emperor?"
"N-no." Ferdas stammered, but said nothing else.
"…Like Motti?" Entam continued. Behind Ferdas, Tarkin saw that without his – and certainly without Ferdas's – noticing, the IT-O's neural probe had extended to contact lightly with the base of his skull. "Is he our 'perfect Imperial'?"
"Motti is… useful. A centre to rally around. He has a purpose to serve." Ferdas's head lulled slightly and Entam promptly cocked her head to match, mirroring him, their eyes still locked.
"But he's not our ideal, is he?" she intoned. "What happens when we win, Ferdas? When we've saved the Empire?"
"What are you doing?" Ferdas mumbled, hands balling into fists. His eyes trembled, but did not move away from Entam's. "What am… what… am I… doing…"
"Will I toss him aside? Would our coalition of the disenfranchised survive that?"
"He's… just another tumour." Ferdas's lips barely moved, his voice almost imperceptible. "His time will… will come… when he…"
"When he's fulfilled his purpose, yes, exactly." Entam's voice had lowered even further to match, now just a sympathetic cooing. "I should go over that again; my plan for Motti."
"My plan for Motti," Ferdas echoed, voice louder than it had just been, almost like he was rising from a low, dark place.
"When we've saved the Empire he must be excised too." Entam's voice remained a low purr, but Tarkin heard an edge to it, like she was trying to force Ferdas down to her level. "But before that the coalition needs him; it needs his legitimacy before it can stand on its own. I just need to remember the plan. How did it start?"
There was a long pause before Ferdas responded. He did not sink back down. Instead he said, puzzled, "…The coalition?" There was the ghost of a new, unwanted expression creeping onto his face; wariness.
"Yes, yes, I remember now," Entam pressed on, almost insistent. "The first part of the plan with Motti. His next move was…"
There was a long, long silence as the two simply stared at eachother. Ferdas's head was nodding slightly, mouth slack.
Entam tried again. "I remember Motti's next move was…" Still, that same low tone, trying to invite Ferdas back down into the depths of his own thoughts. Tarkin could hear the strain beneath it all as she tried to reassert control.
Ferdas still stayed silent still nodding back and forth. Tarkin wondered if the technique had moved to far, and his train of thought had returned to being purely internalized.
Suddenly, he reared his head back, then brought it crashing down on the table with a visceral crunch and A squirt of blood splattered across the table. For a long pause, there was total silence in the cell. Then Ferdas let out a shuddering gasp. Entam sat back in her chair, looking thoroughly disappointed.
After several seconds of ragged breathing, Ferdas lifted his face, and Tarkin could see that his nose had A rivulet of blood flowing from each nostril. Ferdas spat a gob of blood onto the table and tongued where the impact had caused him to bite his own lips. He still looked stim-addled, but he was present again.
Yularen had been quite right. Entam was a prime candidate for Paredax. She had almost pulled off a stealth application of an extremely advanced neurostim strategy; one that impaired the target's ability to distinguish internal conceptualization and rationalization from external perception and vocalization, then – through mirroring and a form of pseudo-hypnosis – lulled them into unknowingly vocalizing their thoughts.
After another long pause, and another wad of blood spat onto the table, Ferdas finally spoke with a slurred "Space me."
Entam studied him for a moment, face hard and calculating, eyes filled with disappointment and – perhaps – disgust with her lack of success. Finally, she gave a slow shake of her head.
"No, I don't think so."
And then the IT-O practically fell upon him, myriad panels in its spherical shell opening to reveal all manner of wicked-looking tools that quickly went to work on Ferdas. The captain jerked and gasped at first, recoiling from shock arms and syringes that whipped out over and over to strike at him. He seethed and writhed under the agony of neural probes pressed up against his temples.
Eventually, he began to scream.
Tarkin and Yularen watched, impassive. The seconds became a minute, became two, became five, filled with nothing but the whirr of machinery as the interrogation droid savaged the captive. Entam sat stock still, staring at Ferdas, scrutinizing him for some telltale sign of breaking that would likely be imperceptible to Tarkin.
Ten minutes. Ferdas's keening agony was growing hoarse. The slight suggestion of a frown showed on Entam's lips.
Finally, Tarkin raised a hand, saw Entam glance at it out of the corner of her eye. A moment later the onslaught subsided, the IT-O lifting away from Ferdas's battered form that was bent double over his manacled arms. One hand was contorted by some injected paralytic, the other twitched and seized repeatedly from the aftereffects of a shock probe applied repeatedly to the Ulnar nerve.
Entam stood, stepping around the table and grasping Ferdas by his hair. She lifted his head, tilting his bloody face up so she could look him in the eye.
"Other ships were disabled over Kuat, Captain; two Imperial-class destroyers. Did you know that, or were you preoccupied with your own struggles?" She didn't wait for a response. "Do you know why I'm here, interrogating some middle-management scum like you instead of the captains of ships that matter?"
Ferdas still could only pant, the blood that ran over his lips breaking into froth with every breath.
"Because the others self-terminated long before we could reach them. But you didn't. You fled your bridge, tried to escape in a cargo shuttle, sent out sacrificial decoys. So be honest with yourself. For all your ideological grandstanding, you wouldn't die for the cause. For all your suicidal bravado, you're still seeking an out."
The captain's puffy eyes were still open, staring back at Entam defiantly.
"The door is still open, captain." The interrogator's voice had dropped so low Tarkin struggled to make it out. "This can just be some unpleasantness on the way to glory. What will it be? Will you be a hero, or just another dead traitor?"
Ferdas was silent for a long while, looking almost as if he no longer knew where he was. Then he tried to respond, struggled, and stopped to swallow. Finally, he managed to speak, the words sounding thick and pained. "A… a hero of rats, crowned with refuse, and… and cloaked… in filth…"
Entam shoved his head down and stepped away. "Then it continues. My shift just started – not sure about yours, Ferdas, but I'm sure we can be flexible on that."
The IT-O let out an ominous buzz and started to approach again. Ferdas couldn't help but cringe away from it.
Entam stared him down, her eyes drilling into Ferdas's. "I hope you didn't have any other plans."
Tarkin watched a moment more, scrutinizing Ferdas. The captain was battered, agonized, but far from broken. His resistance training was doing him well against Entam's current, more blunt methodology. Perhaps a change of tact was in order.
"Ah." Tarkin finally spoke, drawing a fully-body jump of surprise from Ferdas. "Staff Chief Entam, you have performed admirably, but I'm afraid we've run up against a wall on this one. Although he could not bring himself to self-terminate, Captain Ferdas is a… you might say that he is a true believer."
The interrogator seemed almost amused. "A true believer of the insurrection, Supreme Moff? It seems to me he's more a true believer of himself than anything else."
"You do him a disservice. He's a true believer of this 'EmComReIS'." Tarkin nodded. "And by extension, the Empire itself – though I think you would agree that he has developed a rather necrotic, even cancerous dogma on how it should best move forward."
Yularen let out a small cough that Tarkin recognized as a suppressed chuckle, though this time Ferdas did not jump; his addled gaze remained fixed on Tarkin. Beneath the mental fog, there was recognition; hatred.
Tarkin ignored the captain for the time being, looking instead to Yularen. "Wullf?"
"They're an ouroboros," Colonel observed with ill-concealed amusement. "They're each other's useful idiot. Motti is Ferdas's disposable figurehead, and Ferdas is Motti's expendable fanatic. They both see the other as tools to be exploited and cast aside."
"Indeed" Tarkin demurred, realizing he found it every bit as amusing as Wullf. "But I wouldn't put it quite so equitably. Of our two useful idiots, one holds the reins of a fleet with a nearly-minted dreadnought, and the other was little more than a pawn that has now found himself at the mercy of our hospitality."
There was a moment of silence in the room after that, then Tarkin deigned to return his eyes to the prisoner. "And was fool enough to trust Motti."
Ferdas shuddered and made a sound akin to a growl, a guttural noise that Tarkin realized was meant to be anger, frustration, or something equally vile. It was pitiable to see.
"Something to say, Captain?" he asked glibly.
Ferdas sucked a single shuddering breath, then a second. Finally, through a throat that sounded raw and bloodied, he replied.
"You aren't fit to lead."
"Am I not?" Tarkin's voice, his posture, his face, all remained unchanged.
"You're a rot…" Ferdas took another agonized breath "…at the heart of the galaxy."
Tarkin laughed, a low chortle that shook his shoulders. "Oh, Captain Ferdas, do enlighten us. Continue with your manifesto."
"Motti might be a useful tool… but you're just a clinger-on. A Clone Wars holdover the Emperor has kept… out of some misguided sense of charity."
"And to add to it all, delusional," Tarkin mused. "It really is amusing, Captain, to see the fascinating ideas the likes of you dream up while they struggle to understand why things are the way they are."
Ferdas took another ragged breath and did not respond. His eyes were quickly unfocussing and refocussing as he struggled against some new effect being brought on by the neurostims.
Tarkin continued. "It makes one wonder how you could ever have ascended to anything so notable as the captain of a Destroyer, when evidently your critical thinking skills are at best in competition with treatment pond scum."
Entam let out just the lightest snicker, but when Tarkin looked at her he didn't see dumb cruelty. He saw a glimmer of recognition, and an immediate openness to the new tactic Tarkin was presenting.
He turned his eyes back to Ferdas. "Furthermore, it raises the alarming question of how one so detached from rational thinking could have convinced others to follow him in this lunatic venture. How did someone with such blatantly limited understanding of the Empire's workings convince others to follow him so blindly? Surely it wasn't with your overwhelming aura of altruism."
Ferdas's breathing had become thin; light and rapid, with a quality that reminded Tarkin of the agonal breathing of the dying. With his emergent condition, Tarkin worries that Ferdas was no longer clearly mentally present. He still cringed as the interrogation droid drew closer to his bruised, bleeding body. That was a good sign.
"Captain? Still with us?" Tarkin peered down at him. His new strategy of baiting the prisoner to spew his dogma seemed a good one, but it would only work if the captain was lucid. "Are you listening, Ferdas?"
Ferdas's head slowly came up. With equal slugishness, his mouth twisted in an ugly parody of a grin. "You think I'm insane."
"No, Captain. We know better." Tarkin gave a pitying shake of his head. "But you see what you've done. Your whole crew, from your Commander down to the deckhands, are all set to be liquidated as traitors. Almost five thousand people whose crimes amount to believing in you and following your orders. Can you live with that on your conscience? Is your cause worth it?"
"You don't…" Ferdas paused took another handful of shallow breaths. "You don't understand, because you don't believe in… anything but yourself."
Tarkin raised an eyebrow. "I do believe that was Staff Chief Entam's line, captain."
"Anyone with eyes can see the rot hidden in the way things are. Anyone with a mind to think can understand that we have our chance to fix it, and that that chance is worth any price."
"Even if you believe that, not even the most harmonious ship is a hive mind." Tarkin insisted. "How were you able to maintain control of your ship upon defection, Captain? Do you expect us to believe that there was no dissent amongst the lower ranks?"
Ferdas licked his bloodied lips feverishly, dizzied by the neurostims coursing through his body. "Your precious doctrines have failed you, Tarkin. Your training regimens, built to quash individuality and churn out unquestioning legions; they take orders as they always do. The ones that made it through, that think, they generally aren't fans of yours."
"Is that you, Ferdas, a 'thinker'?" Tarkin smirked. "All I see is Motti's puppet with its strings cut. You are a drone with delusions of grandeur."
Ferdas clenched his fists as tightly as possible, attempting to suppress a groan of pain. His head fell forward against the table, letting the cold surface seep into his skin, his forehead, his cheeks.
"You have an Empire to save," he said with bitter sarcasm. "Don't you have something better to do than stand here taking jabs at me?"
"Indeed I do, yes." Tarkin nodded, then turned his gaze back to the interrogator, whom had been waiting, watching attentively for when Tarkin would tap her back in. "Staff Chief Entam, however…"
Entam cleared her throat, keeping steely eyes locked on Ferdas while the IT-O buzzed closer and closer.
"Captain, I'm afraid you've exhausted your usefulness to us – what meagre use you had, that is. No more dogma. No more second chances. No more offers to become a turncoat." She leaned forward slightly, maintaining eye contact. "I am going to ask you one last question. You will answer it to our satisfaction, or the last hours of your life are going to be spent in this cell, and they will be extremely unpleasant. Am I understood?"
Ferdas didn't respond. His eyes were open, fixed on the table directly in front of them, and Tarkin could tell he was desperately trying not to look at the interrogation droid as it moved to resume his torment.
"Tell me you understand, captain," Entam intoned.
"I hear you," Ferdas whispered after a long pause.
"Good." Entam nodded. "Where is the next target?"
"I don't-" Ferdas replied too quickly, but even so was stopped instantly by the IT-O falling on him once more. The words caught in his throat and were immediately mangled into screams. His involuntary thrashing caused him to once again slam his forehead against the table.
The droid worked on him for a full minute before stopping, though it did not withdraw. When the noise had died away, Entam straightened up from her position behind her desk. "And I thought I was being so clear, Ferdas. What part of 'You will answer it to our satisfaction' did you not understand?"
"I-" Ferdas was again cut off as the interrogation droid began again. Tarkin had thought that the first round of sustained coercion had been brutal, but clearly Entam had been holding back. These new, shorter bursts of pain were much worse; cuts were opened across Ferdas's uniform and skin. The exposed parts of his body were dotted with pinpricks from dozens of rapidstim applications. This time it went for two minutes before retracting its many tools from the man.
"Perhaps I was a bit hasty." Entam said. The phrasing was such that it seemed she should have spoken with candour, but her voice was flat, dead. "But that didn't sound much like a name to me, captain."
"No!" Ferdas cried hoarsely between gasps. "Please, no more. Please!"
She didn't let him say anything more. The Droid went back to work, and the screams continued. Three horrific minutes, this time, while Entam slowly moved closer. At one point, an appendage whipped out from the IT-O's rear, honed in on Ferdas's spasming hands with a keen accuracy, and ripped off an entire fingernail. Tarkin sucked a cringing breath through clenched teeth at that one.
When the droid laid off again, Entam was looming over her helpless subject as he sagged in his chair, only held in place by the cuffs shackling him to the table. She leaned down, put her mouth right by his ear, and spoke so low Tarkin could only scarcely hear her.
"No pleas. No protestations. No excuses." Her voice was that same, chilling wasteland of nothing; like Entam's previous personality had departed her body and been replaced with that of an emotionless machine. "Just one name, and it stops. Otherwise we go on, and on, forever."
Ferdas stared off into space, sucking shallow breaths. They could all sense it; he was close.
Entam straightened up with a small grunt of disapproval, and the droid began again. Ferdas's howls were no less raw this time around, but now his voice was starting to fail. At times it ran raw and transformed to a hollow keening through vocal cords that had otherwise lost their use.
When the droid came to a stop this time around, it was particularly gruesome. It simply came to a halt in the middle of its procedure; electroshock prod hovering an inch over Ferdas's chest, one of its many syringes still buried in the side of Ferdas's neck.
Entam only stared down at the man as her convulsed and twitched. "Do you have a name for me?"
There was a long, long pause where the only sound in the room was Ferdas's quiet sobs of pain. It was only when Entam grew tired of waiting, and as the droid moved to begin what would doubtlessly be the five-minute interval, that a single word leaked out of Ferdas's mouth.
"Corellia" he choked, his voice so ruined by the screaming that the vowels came out as hoarse whispers.
Immediately, Tarkin and Yularen's gazes snapped to each other and locked. He saw the immediate validation in the Colonel's eyes, and knew that the colonel must in turn be seeing the begrudging acceptance in his own.
"Corellia, Captain?" Entam pressed. The droid pulled back, the embedded needle pulling free from his neck to leave behind a too-large dimple that leaked blood.
"Yes, Corellia," Ferdas wheezed as his arms trembled within his restraints. His eyes were coated with a sheen of agonal tears that resisted his attempts to blink them away. "Seize the fortress, control the hyperspace lanes."
Tarkin and Yularen both looked at Entam, who looked back at them. They shared the silent communication over the top of the oblivious, nearly delirious captain.
Entam gave the slightest nod. She believed that he believed it.
Tarkin realized that a scowl had set upon his face. He stepped forward and stooped over Ferdas.
"Tell me, captain," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Did this order come directly from Motti, or through a chain of command? Some sort of executive council, or directorate board?"
Ferdas's words moved soundlessly for a few attempts before his ravaged vocal cords finally managed to produce the word. "…Motti…"
Tarkin snorted, stooping lower still. "And would you, fantastic visionary and grand strategist that you are, know who Motti has taken as his military advisors?"
Another long pause before Ferdas uttered a weak "No". His voice cracked slightly with the nervous anticipation of renewed pain for an unsatisfactory answer. It did not come. Instead, Tarkin found himself lowering himself until he was a bare inch from the captain's head.
"Accepting, then, that you are a pathetic bottom feeder that has been used and cast aside exactly as intended," he hissed directly into the captive's ear, taking an undignified amount of satisfaction in how Ferdas's eyes squeezed shut and beaded with fresh tears. "Answer me this. Have you at any point during the plotting and execution of this farce of a coup heard anyone – at any station within your little insurrection – mention the name of Grand Admiral Thrawn?"
There was a moment, this time just a single beat of time, before Ferdas's nearest eye eased open. It looked back at Tarkin, and the confusion in it enraged him.
"…What?" he asked weakly. There was no deception.
Tarkin's eyes flicked up to meet Yularen's eyes. By his posture, it was practically a glower from underneath his furrowed brow. He straightened up.
"Corellia, then," Tarkin said, uttering it almost like a curse. "I believe that brings our time here to an end. For your… eventual… co-operation, Ferdas, you have my thanks."
Ferdas sucked several shuddering breaths before responding. What came out was the pale shadow of a hoarse whisper.
"Done, then? Time to… put me out of my misery?" The half-dried blood running from his nose cracked with the movement of his lips. "Do I get a… a last request?"
"It's already been made," Entam responded immediately. Her voice was so completely devoid of emotion or inflection that Tarkin had to look at her, finding that same detachedness in her expression. "'Probe until my brain is mush, fry my nerves so I can't feel it anymore'."
There was a lingering silence following her words, marked only by a single agonized sob from the prisoner. Tarkin and Yularen shared a glance that confirmed the Colonel as equally disturbed.
He hesitated a moment longer, then inclined his head. "An excellent memory, Staff Chief. As you were."
"I will expect a full debrief upon completion," Yularen added, fixing Entam with a pointed look that made his meaning clear: Play longer if you must, but do not break the toy.
One of their Deathtrooper escorts uttered a short, harsh vocalization through his vocoder. On cue, the cell's door opened, attended to by one of the other escorts outside.
Ferdas, for his part, had his eyes scrunched closed, tears streaming from the corners. It looked as if he were physically attempting to phase into the table on which he lay.
Entam remained seated, left leg crossed over her right and he hands folded in her lap. Her eyes bore into her captive, and she did not stand or salute as Tarkin, Yularen, and their escort exited the cell. It was an unnecessary breach of decorum, but also one that Tarkin had no interest in reprimanding.
The door slid closed behind them with a pneumatic whoosh and the multifaceted 'click' of multiple locks engaging. A moment later, the muted sound of Ferdas's screaming began to leak through the door's seals.
"On the shortlist for Paredax indeed." Tarkin wondered aloud. "Your Interrogator is most impressive, Wulf. Her suggestion method was like nothing I've seen before."
"I quite agree, governor. Staff Chief Entam is a prime candidate; front of the line for when the augmentations clear through initial sentient testing." Yularen paused, then gave a slight chuckle, "Though I hate to imagine how frightening she would be with a detachment of purge troopers at her command."
"She does have a certain… character," Tarkin nodded, picturing the detached, even disassociated demeanour Entam had acquired once her patience had run out towards the end of the session. "If she's capable of moderating her more vicious compulsions, then-" he was interrupted by a fresh and particularly visceral scream from within the cell. "…then she could be a fantastic resource."
"Entam enjoys playing with her food well beyond a point I would consider tasteful." Yularen grimaced. "But she has restraint enough not to throw away possible assets. We're just lucky that Lord Vader did not make a surprise visit."
Tarkin gave a low grunt of agreement. "Visits are all that we seem to see from Lord Vader of late."
To this, Yularen did not respond. They had both reached their maximum daily quota for speaking ill of the Sith Lord; and they had a luxurious ration compared to anyone outside the Joint Chiefs.
Surely, though, they were both having the same thoughts; wondering what Vader was doing, sealed away in his quarters for days at a time, emerging only rarely before retreating again.
Tarkin wondered more if it was related to the long conversation he had shared with the Emperor when they had been on Coruscant. His hunch was that Vader was meditating on something at great length, but what that was he hesitated to even guess at.
"Very well then," Tarkin finally broke the silence. "My reservations are unchanged, but you will be happy to know that I am not impervious to reason. Corellia it is then. We shall complete our transfer to the Devastator and make ready to intervene."
There was a long pause before Yularen replied. When he did, it was with a simple and understated "Thank you, Governor".
Tarkin gave a single nod then began to turn away. Then he paused, and gave the Colonel one final look of warning. "Let me stress, my reservations have not changed, Wullf. I expect constant updates on your attempts to hail Thrawn."
Yularen bowed his head as Tarkin and his escort departed. "Absolutely, governor. You will be notified the moment I have made contact."
"Your attempts, Colonel." Tarkin shot back, scowling as he walked away. Yularen's faith in the Grand Admiral, he felt, was far more concerning than his own paranoia that the Chiss had turned traitor. It was a blind spot ripe for abuse.
As he keyed his commlink and began relaying orders to Admiral Kilian, Tarkin could feel that gnawing sensation at the base of his gut that told him he was still unconvinced of their new course of action. Though he could not reason out a better course of action just yet, Tarkin felt a grim foreboding that until just recently he had been stood at a junction of dark, twisting paths – most of which led directly to his death.
And now, he had taken the first step. It most certainly did not feel like he had made the right one.
Author's Note: Another one of these! I really do detest them, but I can't reappear after having vamoosed for a full 20 months without some well-deserved explanation, and an apology.
There's been a few people that have checked in over that long period of silence to see if I'm okay and if the story will be continuing, and I'd just like to say that I deeply appreciate that, especially when things have gotten well past the point most people would have assumed that the story was simply dead and would not be continuing. If you guessed that COVID played a role, you'd be right - it's a rather low hanging fruit, let's be honest - but that's not the full story.
In brief, I changed jobs in late 2019 to a role that ended up including a lot of overtime. I managed to thrash out the previous chapter over that same holiday period, but then when COVID slammed us all my work ended up dominating my life for a huge portion of 2020. Even when things started to calm down I couldn't really get back into the headspace for writing Triumvirate. The laborious pacing of a chapter can be pretty daunting to produce at times.
But just recently, I've moved roles again to a much more chill employer with kinder work hours, so I've been able to get both the time and mental breathing room to resume my writing projects. Hence, Triumvirate can begin anew.
Like the previous chapter, I believe this one is more utilitarian in nature, which was another reason it was a bit harder to write. Oh, and the torture. That made it kinda difficult too. Fun fact: If you write "Enhanced Interrogation" in Microsoft Word it tells you to just call a spade a spade and write "torture". Pretty based, honestly.
The next couple of chapters should have more narrative meat on their bones, and after that we should see a quickening of the story's pace that means I won't really have to write these sorts of extraneous chapters anymore. That also means future chapters will be easier to type, so we can look forward to more frequent updates.