Newly-promoted Admiral Gilad Pellaeon watched as two of his prized cadets ran through a training drill. Cadet Deleste occupied the sensors station, working his way through a number of target analysis drills, asked to respond quickly as simulated foes appeared and disappeared at the edges of Chimaera's sensors. His partner, Cadet Mytov, took the identifications and made snap-decisions about how to respond to each one. The two of them were among the finest of the cadets in the class Pellaeon was going to graduate, and unless they made a terrible mess of the sim, they would be graduating second and third in their class—which meant that Pellaeon would be hosting them for dinner that evening.
That was one of the honors and responsibilities of Pellaeon's position as their finishing instructor. He hadn't been at Carida all that long—just six months—but they had been as rewarding as the months he'd spent as Thrawn's flag captain. Thrawn had taught Pellaeon so much in that time, and now it was Pellaeon's job to make sure that knowledge was not forgotten by the fleet.
Deleste and Mytov's fingers flew with the energy of youth and the precision of training, Mytov holding one hand on his ear as he issued rapid-fire instructions; Deleste made sure that he knew what they were dealing with, his expression never flinching. In the other crew pit Lieutenant Tschel was running the exercise, tossing increasingly vague and uncertain shadows at Deleste, forcing him to make judgment calls rather than obvious decisions.
Pellaeon watched as they worked, increasingly impressed as—
The computer screen froze up; the simulated ships suddenly vanished. As the alarm klaxon started to sound, the border of the tactical screen that Deleste and Mytov were using went red.
"Status change! Hyperspace emergence!" shouted someone in the portside crew pit, but the primary sensor station was still occupied by Deleste and Mytov. The two men didn't miss a beat. Deleste made the identification and forwarded it to Mytov, who pressed the key on his desk and spoke over the intercom without a moment's hesitation. "Confirm one Executor-class Super Star Destroyer!"
Pellaeon's blood ran cold. A Super Star Destroyer? That had to be Lusankya! The New Republic was mad to attack Carida, with all its extensive defenses and the hefty fleet presence, but if they were going to do it, leading with Lusankya was the way to start!
He stabbed the com. "All ships transition into standard combat fleet formation! Fighter squadrons scramble! Inform Carida control that we'll need all ground-based fighter squadrons—"
He was interrupted by Mytov's voice. "Vessel identified as Reaper, Grand Moff Kaine arriving."
Pellaeon cut his orders short. He took a breath, newfound irritation replacing concern. Moffs. They always felt the need to throw their weight around. "Belay those previous orders," he muttered and released the com pickup switch.
Lieutenant Tschel was at his side, one hand holding a datapad and the other on the com pickup in his ear. "Grand Moff Kaine sends greetings and respectfully requests permission to come aboard. He understands that you're hosting the last meal for this year's graduating class tonight and indicates his desire to attend."
Pellaeon kept his face neutral. "Very well Lieutenant. Tell the Grand Moff that we will be waiting for him. Helm, assume escort formation with Reaper." He pressed a different button on the command board; this one buzzed his steward. "It would seem we have company. Prepare a ceremonial side party and add another seat to the dinner table for tonight. Also, take out our more expensive wines, I think. The Chandrilan, if we have any left."
That left just one last thing to attend to.
Pellaeon walked over to the starboard crew pit and looked down at Deleste and Mytov. The two men had been shoved aside by Chimaera's normal crew, but the truth was they'd done the job as well as anyone could have. It had not been intended, but it had been a superb test. "Congratulations are in order," Pellaeon ground out, annoyed at being caught off-guard. "You both pass with flying colors."
The two young men smiled like schoolboys.
Pellaeon waited as his guests filed into the room. Their backs were parade ground straight, their step possessing the kind of precision granted by elite training at the Caridan Military Academy, they were the best of the best of the year's graduating class. The stewards waited against the walls of the room as the three cadets walked the gauntlet between the handful of officers who would be joining them for dinner at the long dining table. Each of the three stopped at their assigned seat, standing beside it as they waited for permission to sit.
Out the starboard window was Carida. A pleasant world, with unusually thick white clouds and enormous, sometimes mountainous land masses spotted with numerous lakes and rivers, it was important for a number of reasons. Firstly, it was home to the primary Imperial fleet and stormtrooper academies, and as such was one of the only places left in the Empire that still produced high-quality young officers for the Starfleet. Just as importantly, Carida was located close to the center of the galaxy, about equidistant between Coruscant and Kuat, while also being close to the Hydian Way. The combination made it valuable strategically as well, forcing the New Republic to place numerous ships in proximity. That led to Carida being the second most fortified planetary system in what was left of the ragged confederation of Moffs and Warlords that still laughably called itself the "Empire", with dozens of Star Destroyers and smaller craft always present at any given time, and an array of Golan defense platforms that would give even a Super Star Destroyer pause.
Even with that impressive array of defenses, Pellaeon knew it was a matter of time before the New Republic came for them here. The question was only how long it would be.
When was it, Pellaeon thought, that he had gone from an officer in the Imperial Starfleet, the most powerful military the galaxy had ever seen, to an officer desperately trying to keep hold of what little they had left? And these young men would be asked to fight a war that had begun before they were born, a war that Pellaeon's generation had frittered away with complacency and arrogance.
Like his cadets, Pellaeon stood, waiting.
The yeoman at the door straightened and brought a whistle to his lips. He blew out a salute, and every man in the room straightened as one. The large doors that the cadets had walked through swung open again. The man who walked in was tall, with grey hair and a regal bearing that had been trained into him from youth. The Grand Moff's uniform he wore aided the effect, and Pellaeon adopted the studious officer's mask he had also learned as a cadet, allowing it to break only long enough to check and make sure his three students were maintaining theirs.
Pellaeon's arm rose to tender the salute that protocol demanded. "Welcome aboard Chimaera, sir. It is our honor to receive you."
He had never met Grand Moff Kaine in person. On one occasion he could recall Thrawn negotiating with Kaine over the holocomm, instructing Kaine to maneuver the Outer Rim Fleet to reinforce the forward units responsible for the bulk of the fighting. It had been a careful dance, because Kaine had technically outranked Thrawn. Kaine's reluctance to fully commit to Thrawn's campaign had forced Thrawn to make suboptimal decisions time and again, Pellaeon thought resentfully. Had Reaper been present at Bilbringi, and not hidden in reserve where Kaine could be sure that nothing would happen to the priceless artifact of his personal prestige, that battle would have ended differently. Very differently indeed.
But his resentment could not be allowed to show. Any Imperial officer with Pellaeon's years of service knew that expressing such sentiments would be counterproductive and quite possibly fatal.
"Thank you, Admiral," Kaine returned the salute with twinned careful military precision, and yet it was somehow still more casual and relaxed than Pellaeon's own. The Grand Moff turned his attention on the three cadets. "And these young men are the ones we are here to offer proper honors to?" he asked.
"Yes sir," Pellaeon replied. "Cadet Nalle, step forward."
Hacery Nalle was the youngest of the three. A good half-meter shorter than either of his comrades, he had the solid compact frame characteristic of the best TIE fighter pilots. And Nalle was the best. Pellaeon had even heard quiet comparisons to the legendary Baron Soontir Fel, which was a comparison the surprisingly shy young man clearly rejected.
"Cadet Nalle will graduate first in his class this year," Pellaeon recited. "He has passed every exam given to him, and has set the fourth-highest marks ever on his flying practicals."
Kaine circled the table and shook Nalle's hand. "Cadet Nalle. Tell me, Cadet, do you have a preferred posting?"
Nalle's cheeks had gone red, contrasting vividly with his dark hair and pale skin. "I'm h-happy to accept any assignment the Empire would honor me with, sir!" he said with only a momentary fumbling of words.
"Of course," Kaine replied. "But you forget, I graduated from Carida too, as did Admiral Pellaeon. Everyone knows that while you will take any position, there is always one you're hoping for."
The abashed smile made Nalle look even younger than he was. "O-of course, sir." He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I'm really hoping for a TIE Defender squadron, sir," he admitted.
"I don't blame you," Kaine said cheekily.
Pellaeon waited another moment, then resumed the recitation. "Cadet Deleste, step forward."
Two men who looked more dissimilar rarely stood next to one another. Hacery Nalle was short and pale; Cienis Deleste was tall and dark, with a muscular build that would have suited a stormtrooper. But while Deleste probably could have been a stormtrooper, and indeed had initially been admitted to that service branch, the Starfleet had a long history of plucking talented recruits out of the Corps. Deleste, Pellaeon had no doubt, was destined to rise the ranks quickly—he had more raw talent than any other Caridan cadet Pellaeon had known at that age—and he wondered, mournfully, what Thrawn would have made of the young man if given the chance.
"Cadet Deleste will graduate second in his class this year," Pellaeon said, "and his teachers tell me he has both tactical and strategic prowess beyond that of any average cadet. Like Cadet Nalle, he has surpassed many of the marks set by his predecessors. I have had the opportunity to put him through some simulations based on battles in my own experience, and he has proven to be quick-witted and calm under pressure."
"Cadet Deleste," Kaine greeted him. Where Kaine had looked down on Nalle, he had to look up at Deleste, something that struck Pellaeon as humorous; he suspected that when, fifteen or twenty years from now and Deleste was in command of the Imperial Starfleet, he would think back to this moment and smile at the memory. "I have reviewed your record," Kaine announced; if the fact that Kaine was shorter than Deleste bothered him, he wasn't letting it show. "It is very impressive indeed. In fact, during my last meeting with General Alsdoxe he took the time to complain at length about the fact that the Starfleet had stolen you away from the Stormtrooper Corps."
The slight smile that creased Deleste's cheek faded quickly. "Thank you. Sir."
"Admiral Pellaeon also thinks very highly of you," Kaine continued. "Tell me, Cadet, do you have a preferred assignment?"
"First Officer on a Lancer-class Frigate. Sir," Deleste replied promptly.
Kaine's eyebrows both rose. "An interesting choice. Why?"
"Lancers are often commanded by Commanders or even Lieutenant Commanders," Deleste explained. "A Lieutenant serving as first officer would not be out of place. The heart of the New Republic's combat doctrine is their use of snubfighters. The best counter the Empire has to a massed snubfighter assault is a Lancer. Sir."
Kaine looked over at Pellaeon. "You're right, Admiral. He is sharp."
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon replied stiffly. He waited until Kaine gave a small nod, then continued the ceremony. "Cadet Mytov, step forward."
The last of the three top graduates into the Imperial Starfleet that year was a seeming balance between his two fellows. Not as short or pale as Nalle, nor as tall or dark as Deleste, Mytov had none of Deleste's brilliance or Nalle's piloting skill. Instead, he was a dedicated, hardworking young man. Pellaeon had liked him at once and already put through a formal requisition to have him assigned to Chimaera. He wasn't sure if he would get to keep Mytov or not, but he hoped he would. It would be good to have him on the bridge, as an example to the mostly-conscripted men that crewed Chimaera.
"Cadet Mytov will graduate third in his class this year," Pellaeon continued the formalized ritual of the last meal. "He is the finest electronic warfare specialist of his class, and has the talent and work ethic to make himself into the finest electronic warfare specialist of the Starfleet."
"Tell me, Cadet Mytov," Kaine said cheerfully, "are you aware that Admiral Pellaeon has already put in a formal requisition to have you assigned to Chimaera as his chief EW specialist?"
Mytov had not been expecting the question. His eyes flicked to Pellaeon, who kept his own expression perfectly stiff. Mytov quickly returned his attention to Kaine, who watched him with the curious expectancy of a man awaiting an answer. "I was not, sir," he said. "I am honored."
"As you should be," Kaine agreed. He stepped back, folding his hands behind his back. "Are the three of you prepared?"
All three men straightened. They fell into a neat line before Kaine, each folding both of their arms behind their back. Their uniforms were perfectly pressed, their outfits trim and neat, and for a brief moment Pellaeon reverted back to his own last meal. He'd not graduated high enough in his class to have the last meal with the local Senator or Sector Governor, but it had still been a triumphant occasion.
The oath was different now than it had been, but not that different. Not different in any way that truly mattered.
There was a rhythmic quality as the three men recited their oath. "I declare that I will be faithful, and bear true allegiance to the Galactic Empire, and that I will, as in duty bound, honestly and faithfully defend the citizens of the Empire and the Emperor, his heirs and successors, in person, position and dignity against all enemies, from within and without, and will observe and obey all orders of the Admirals and officers set over me, until I am dead or rendered unfit to serve."
Pellaeon's lips moved along with the words. He knew them all, even the few that had changed during his service. I will, in duty bound, honestly and faithfully defend the citizens of the Empire and the Emperor, his heirs and successors, in person, position and dignity against all enemies.
Loyalty had still been pledged to the Republic when Pellaeon was a cadet, and to the Senate instead of to the Emperor and his heirs. Those had not been the only changes. At some point ISB had convinced the Emperor to add "from within and without" to the old cadences, and the change in the rhythm still threw Pellaeon when he wasn't careful.
But it had not changed that much. The spirit of the oath was the same now as when he had sworn it himself for the first time.
Kaine pinned the rank plaques of Lieutenants to the chests of the three men. "Then, as a Grand Moff of the Empire, I welcome you formally into its service. Lieutenant Nalle, Lieutenant Deleste, and Lieutenant Mytov, long may you serve the Empire."
Nalle's voice was quiet compared to the other two, but Deleste and Mytov's voices echoed with the proper response as their bootheels clicked together. "Yes, sir!"
Through Chimaera's large observation window Reaper blotted out Carida's sun, casting Chimaera in dark shadow. It reminded Pellaeon of serving alongside Executor, at Endor and before, and what it was like to have the sheer size and muscle of a Super Star Destroyer as both sword and shield.
Across the table, Kaine was launching a final assault on his seared turbot and delicately steamed greens with a barely-restrained gusto. When the assault was complete, he placed his knife and fork across his plate and turned his full attention back to Pellaeon. "Tell me, Admiral, how do you like teaching?"
Pellaeon put his own utensils down and rested his hands across his lap. "I find it rewarding, sir, beyond my initial expectations. I believe my time serving with Grand Admiral Thrawn stirred in me the desire to refine raw recruits into fine officers fit for Imperial service."
Pellaeon thought he could see Kaine's expression flicker with distaste at Thrawn's name, but it was hard to be certain. He probably should have restrained himself, but he had never had the proper political sensibilities one really needed for flag rank. "I am told you are very skilled at it," Kaine said.
"Thank you, sir."
"Well-regarded even, by long-service staff and students alike. The Starfleet had intended to leave you in your post, perhaps even make you Commandant of the Academy," Kaine continued.
Pellaeon sat up with surprise, both at the idea that he had been considered for Commandant—he found the idea inspired an unexpected longing—and at the implication that he would shortly be leaving his post. "Chimaera and I are being reassigned?" he asked.
"Not immediately, but you will be shortly," Kaine confirmed. "Unfortunately, with the loss of Admiral Rogriss, the Starfleet is being forced to reshuffle assignments once again to fill vacancies." Kaine had the tailored precision typical of the New Order; his clipped Coruscanti accent was perfectly aristocratic, despite the fact that Kaine was not from Coruscant. "We cannot spare either you or Chimaera for training duty, I'm afraid. I am sorry to pull you away from teaching."
The swell of sorrow that sang through Pellaeon at the mention of Rogriss' death was still all too fresh. Details were extremely scarce, but what information they did have indicated that Agonizer had been separated from the rest of her fleet and vanished in an area fiercely patrolled by a New Republic task force. Their pressure on Eriadu had spread Rogriss' fleet too thin trying to cover all its territories and trade. As had become usual in these days, the Empire had asked its commanders to do too much with too little, and a good man had paid the price.
"The Council of Moffs," Kaine continued—blithely ignoring that of the dozens of men who still comprised the Council of Moffs, his was the voice that truly mattered— "Has decided to assemble a new rapid response formation that will be able to counter the New Republic's coming offensive. It will assemble here at Carida, and the Admiralty is working to find as many ships as possible so that you can actually do the job being asked of you."
"Of course, sir," Pellaeon agreed. An odd sort of nervousness twinged in his gut as he realized this would be his first fleet command. He wondered if this was why Kaine was at Carida at all—was the Oversector finally, finally going to get serious about defending more than its own regional borders? Was that why Reaper unexpectedly loomed over the planet, as a declaration to the New Republic that Carida could not, would not fall? A truly united Empire under Kaine's leadership—as distasteful and politically-minded as Pellaeon might find him personally—was a far more potent rival for the New Republic than the splintered remnant it had been since Thrawn's death. "I endeavour to serve, sir."
Kaine turned to the trio of newly-minted Lieutenants. "Gentlemen," he said, causing all three to straighten in their chairs, subtly tugging on their uniforms to make sure any wrinkles were straightened—they needn't have bothered, the tailoring on their new uniforms was far better than the tailoring on their cadets' uniforms had been—and gave Kaine their undivided attention. He nodded approvingly. "Lieutenant Mytov, you have been assigned to Chimaera, as a senior electronic warfare officer. I trust that the officers and crew of the Chimaera will complete your training to the highest standards of the fleet."
"We certainly will," Pellaeon put in firmly.
"Thank you sir," the Lieutenant said, with the same eager flush of youth that Pellaeon had seen on the face of many a young officer.
"Lieutenant Nalle, you have been assigned to the 212th Imperial Flight Wing. It's a new formation, but in the morning you'll receive your formal transfer order to the carrier that will be assigned to Admiral Pellaeon." Kaine's smile was coy. "I believe you'll be satisfied with the 212th's fighter complement, too."
Nalle gasped; the young pilot was utterly unable to keep the grin from growing on his face. "Yes sir!"
"And you, Lieutenant Deleste," Kaine turned towards Deleste, whose lips curled with anticipation. "You are going to come with me."
The faint beginnings of a smile vanished from the man's face. "Sir?" he asked in confusion, with some clear worry in his voice. His dark eyes flicked over to Pellaeon, who tried to impart calm on the promising young officer with his gaze alone.
"I'm afraid you won't be getting that Lancer position, Lieutenant," Kaine said apologetically. "But there is an opening on Reaper's bridge."
Deleste processed this information quickly. "Of course. Sir, I would be honored."
"Then, since it's getting late and I'm expecting some company later, let's be on our way. I've already had your belongings transferred to Reaper, and Admiral Deshorn will be more than happy to brief you on your new duties the moment we arrive."
Curious, Pellaeon thought. Deleste's record must have stood out to more than just him. For the young man to be given a posting on Reaper's bridge was not overly surprising—as the flagship of the Imperial Starfleet, Reaper was a coveted posting and a footstool to rapid promotion, as Executor had been before it—but Admirals were not in the habit of briefing officers straight out of the academy themselves.
Pellaeon suspected that the next time he saw Deleste, the young man would be a Lieutenant Commander, at least.
"Thank you. Sir."
Kaine offered Pellaeon a handshake, which Pellaeon accepted. "Good luck, Admiral. I'll be in touch with more information on your new fleet sometime tomorrow. In the meantime," Kaine smiled, the perfectly tailored smile that a confident Imperial Moff would wear whether or not he was truly confident, "do enjoy your evening."
Cienis Deleste and his two fellow cadets—no, Deleste thought, Lieutenants now—clustered together. Nalle, who barely came chest-high on Deleste, was chatting excitedly. This was common, when they were out of earshot of superior officers.
"Congratulations, Cee!" the young man who had beaten Deleste for the top spot in the graduating class said, his voice carrying with it fervent and honest admiration.
Deleste couldn't help but grin at Nalle's enthusiasm. "You too, Hack," he replied as he allowed the young man to hug him. It wasn't dignified, but Pellaeon and Kaine were exchanging a brief word and not paying them any attention.
Mytov didn't hug him, but did offer him a firm handshake. "Congratulations, Cee," he repeated Nalle's words. Mytov's smile wasn't as broad, but it was there. They'd had a robust competition to see who would come in second, but it had never become personal.
"Thank you, Phelik," Deleste replied more formally, matching the other's tone. "We both got good postings—you get to keep working with the Old Man on Chimaera, and I get Reaper." He shrugged, trying not to be too smug about it and mostly failing. Everyone in the fleet knew that assignment to Reaper was fast-track to fleet rank.
He would succeed. Deleste could still remember the expressions of his parents when the conscription order had come through; could remember the expressions of his fellow cadets when they heard his Outer Rim accent and the conscripted flag on his personnel file. Mytov had never been one of the bullies, but his native Coruscanti accent was a constant reminder of who he was and what he had. Deleste's lack of one, despite his best efforts to adopt it, never went unnoticed by his teachers.
Mytov shrugged. "I'm alright with how it shook out. You earned it, Cee."
"Yes, he did," said a new voice. Grand Moff Kaine stepped into the conversation circle. "And now he must get to work. Reaper needs fresh blood. Come along, Lieutenant Deleste."
Nalle winked and waved. Mytov clicked his heels together and offered a salute to a superior officer. Deleste followed Kaine. "Thank you for selecting me. Sir."
"No need to thank me, Lieutenant," Kaine said. "You earned your way to where you are, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise." The two men walked through the large, ornate doors out of Chimaera's formal dining hall and into the more typical, sterile corridors of the ship's halls. A group of Stormtroopers were there; they fell into a defensive box formation around Kaine and Deleste, escorting them towards the hangar. "Although I was biased in favor of your success."
Deleste frowned. "Sir?"
"You and I share a homeworld, Lieutenant," Kaine explained. "It may not be the largest world in the Empire, and it is rather far out on the Rim, but I expect that you'll not be the last young man from Sartinaynian to join the Starfleet."
"I see." Deleste wondered if Kaine knew that he had been conscripted. Then he wondered if Kaine would care. Either way, he didn't bring it up.
The shuttle trip from Chimaera to Reaper was quick; the express lift from the hangar to the bridge was not. Deleste found himself sitting with the Grand Moff, surrounded by Stormtroopers; porter droids had taken his bags to move into his new quarters, but the Grand Moff wanted him to see Reaper's bridge.
Conversation petered out as the lift continued its rocketing motion from the hangar towards the bridge. Even moving as fast as it was, they were still a long way from the bridge. Deleste sat and waited, his hands folded with deceptive calm on his lap, still not quite believing he was here. Everything had happened so quickly!
Kaine was reading a datapad. As Deleste watched him—careful not to be too obvious about it—the Grand Moff's expression went through a few quick transformations. At first thunderous, then resigned, and finally resolved. Deleste tensed as Kaine looked up and caught him watching. To his surprise, the Grand Moff merely shrugged. "The only constant is change, Lieutenant," he said.
Deleste was not bold enough to ask him what he meant, and Kaine did not elaborate.
Now an Admiral, Pellaeon had been forced to vacate Chimaera's captain's quarters. Eventually Chimaera would be assigned a new CO to serve as his flag captain, after all. He had found himself with two choices, both of them distasteful. He could either move into Grand Admiral Thrawn's old office suite, complete with holoprojectors for art that Pellaeon still did not appreciate—despite his best efforts—or he could move into the more traditional Admiral's quarters. But those quarters had belonged to another man Pellaeon had considered a friend, and Teren Rogriss' somber ghost followed him whenever he was inside.
Rogriss had left him a letter and a bottle of expensive whiskey on the desk. Pellaeon had yet to open the whiskey.
It was a quiet office. Pellaeon had nothing to decorate it with—no portraits of a wife or children, no portrait of Chimaera—and he made a mental note to find something meaningful to fill the space. Examining the datapad on his desk, which was filled with briefing information from Commander Dreyf about the New Republic's fleet movements, he idly wondered if perhaps General Antilles was an artist, and if so how Thrawn would have gone about acquiring some of his art.
There was a knock on the door. Pellaeon looked up; he still was not used to being on this side of the desk. "Come."
It slid open and Nzem Dreyf entered with his usual catlike grace. Of middling height and leanly muscular, with dark skin and narrow, intelligent eyes, Dreyf wasn't that far removed from his training either. But even a few months of a combat-heavy campaign were enough to give someone the gravitas of a much older man. Pellaeon thought approvingly.
"Admiral," Dreyf greeted him.
"You've heard about our upcoming change in orders?" Pellaeon asked.
"Yes, Admiral," Dreyf said with a nod. He came to stand before the desk, placing a fresh datapad down and then folding his hands behind his back. "Best indications are we'll be assigned four Imperial I-class Star Destroyers, led by Gorgon. They had been part of the picket forces at Ord Trasi. We'll also have at least two Victory-class Star Destroyers, and whatever other small craft can be scrounged. I believe that Kaine intends to transfer to us at least two of the Oversector's Enforcer-class picket cruisers as well."
"The ones with some non-human crew?"
"Yes, sir."
Pellaeon pursed his lips. Well, if they stay aboard their own ships and are kept under control by their human commanding officers, it shouldn't pose a problem. "And a fleet carrier, from what Kaine suggested earlier."
"There's an old Venator being retrofitted," Dreyf said thoughtfully. "Magistrate. She might be for us."
"And then we're going to be sent to stop Antilles," Pellaeon stated flatly. It was not a sure thing, but it seemed a safe guess. "And his Super Star Destroyer." It could be worse, Pellaeon thought. Bel Iblis could still be in command of the enemy.
Dreyf couldn't hide his wince. "Yes, sir."
Pellaeon just nodded. He would do his duty, and he would do it without complaint. Whining set a poor example. "Get me anything you have on Antilles, his staff, and his fleet. There's got to be something Intelligence overlooked, there always is." He turned the datapad face down on his desk, his gaze drawn to the bottle still sitting on it. "Any update on the Rogriss investigation?"
"No sir," Dreyf said apologetically. "I'm afraid not."
Pellaeon sighed. "I should send his children letters, belongings, something. And get me the com codes for the families of Agonizer's crew. Someone should make sure they get condolence letters."
"I'll acquire their locations and find a way for you to contact them, sir."
"Thank you, Commander," Pellaeon said, actual thankfulness touching his voice. The world had shrunk around him the last year. So many people he'd called friends, whose company he'd treasured, were dead now. Thrawn and Rogriss had been important to him. Their deaths hurt more than just professionally.
He knew Rogriss had been a widower, but it was the least he could do to reach out to the Admiral's children—Asori and Terek, if he remembered correctly—and make sure they were doing all right. He owed his dead friend at least that much.