This is a work of fan fiction and all canon characters, scenes, and concept are the property of LucasArts. Original characters and plot property of Gerald Tarrant.

Please do not repost this fanfiction without permission.
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One: The Beginning

The buzzer by the door chimed once, chimed again. There was a short pause, then a muffled rapping commenced, someone outside pounding on the metal door. The chimes resumed, in tandem with the pounding

In the inner chamber, the thumping could not be heard, but the buzzer chimes sounded clear and shrill from a small intercom next to the smooth metal countertop. Admiral Drask Harkov scowled at his image in the small mirror that jutted out from the wall above the counter. The cramped room was sparsely and simply furnished: a low wooden stool sitting in a corner on the metal floor by the counter, a showerhead built into the wall and a drain below it, a small refresher unit on the opposite side. A single light above the mirror illuminated the whole room with a harsh greenish glare. A glance out at the larger antechamber showed that it was furnished with the same austereness as the inner room.

Paying no attention to the buzzer, Harkov lifted his razor, scraped at another part of his shaving-cream covered chin, squinted into the mirror. The face in the mirror was not a young face, lined with years of worry and tension, with a receding hairline turning from dark brown to silver. It could have been a handsome face, once, but now the leanness of the features testified more to bleakness than to good looks. The admiral was stocky and muscled, only slightly taller than average, but there was an air of urgency and quickness about him, a sense that made crewmembers bend to their tasks with double effort whenever he passed, the same air that had made Harkov the youngest man to ever claim the title of admiral in the Imperial Navy.

Harkov scraped again with the razor, more violently this time. Shaving cream flecked off into the mirror and onto his lips, staining the gray counter with specks of white. He put down the razor, turned on the faucet, and wet his lips, making a face at the taste of recycled graywater. One would think that a ship the size of the Victory Star Destroyer Protector could recycle water more efficiently. He picked up the razor again, then paused as the chimes resumed their wild ringing. Sighing, he put the razor down, wiped his hand on the already dirty towel around his waist, and started for the door, stopping to throw on an old, damp shirt over the towel.

He reached the door and unlocked it, pressed the door open control. The door slid open, revealing the nervous face of a young Imperial lieutenant, neatly dressed in a dark olive uniform. Harkov recognized him: Lieutenant Solrun, a new aide recently assigned to him from the Imperial Star Destroyer Invincible. Someone had probably informed Grand Admiral Taklin that Admiral Harkov had too much work to do and needed help finishing it all. Zaarin, most likely.

The aide saluted, opened his mouth. Harkov scowled at him. He didn't need an aide, and he had no patience with anyone who thought he did. Admiral Zaarin was going to hear from him, friendly intention or no. He glanced at the clock; it read six-fifty. "Lieutenant," he snapped, his mood souring as every second passed. "What important reason brings you pounding like a madman at my door at this hour in the morning?"

The aide shifted his feet, adjusted his cap, blue eyes darting nervously from Harkov to the room behind, and back. "Admiral Harkov...a message from Lord Vader."

Harkov opened his mouth to give Solrun another lecture, froze as the words sunk in. "What?" he said, stupidly.

"Lord Vader is hailing you from Imperial Center. The call came in five minutes ago. He wants to speak with you personally."

Five minutes! Harkov felt gnawing fear, pushed it back. To keep the Dark Lord waiting five minutes was to keep him waiting a lifetime. He turned back to the aide, who shrank from his gaze and looked like he wished he could melt through the floor. "You kept Lord Vader waiting five minutes?"

"The lifts were full," Solrun muttered to the metal deck. "And you wouldn't answer the door."

"I bet they were." Harkov slapped the door control viciously, paying no attention to the man's second response. The door slammed down in the lieutenant's face, making Harkov feel a tiny bit better.

He leaned against the cool wall and took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Vader! There was no way he could have found out. Was there?

Damp fear threatened to overwhelm him. He sagged against the wall, slid down to the floor and tilted his head back. It had been a little after Yavin-that was not such a long time ago. But if no one else knew except for him and...

Images crowded before his eyes, images of destruction, death, fire... Harkov straightened, scrambled to his feet. He closed his eyes, shutting out the images, then walked over to the wall intercom. "Harkov to bridge."

"Yes, Admiral?"

"Tell Lord Vader I am sorry to keep him waiting and I will be up in a moment."

"Yes, Admiral." Harkov detected a trace of nervousness in the voice before the intercom clicked off. Well, it was understandable.

He stood there in front of the silent intercom a moment longer, steeling himself. Nothing he could do would hid him from Vader's mysterious power, whatever it was. He would not run. He would face Vader, and if Vader indeed knew, so be it. Death would not be so unpleasant, after all.

"No more running," he whispered. Then he strode away into the inner chamber.

There was always something that bothered Bix Harris every time he came up to the bridge of a Star Destroyer. Maybe it was the fact that too many people were there trying to get the same thing done at the same time. Maybe it was the feeling of closedness, like he really wasn't in space at all, but just in some big building on a planet somewhere. Maybe it was the stormtroopers that sometimes appeared out of nowhere, standing there motionless with eyes hidden inside those skull-like helmets tracking your every move. Maybe it was just that he spent too much time in his TIE fighter and in the hangar bay and not enough time elsewhere. Whatever the reason, Bix had to pushed hard to be gotten onto the bridge of the Protector, or any other ship, for that matter.

Today, though, as he stood there looking out around the crew pit and waiting for General Daran, the TIE operations officer, to approve his report, he could feel something different in the air, an unusual energy in the movements of the crew, a forced quickness of step. The bridge felt twice as cold and unnatural, and Bix moved restlessly, eager to get back down to the bay where his fighter waited.

But even moving quickly, General Daran could only read and approve so many reports at a time, and there was a long line ahead. Bix peered down the line, catching a glimpse of Daran sitting at a computer terminal and popping the next data card into the scanner. The general was young-looking, seemingly not much older than Bix, though Bix had heard he was almost as old as the admiral, and was slight of build with thick blond hair. There was a thick, ridged, red scar covering almost half his right cheek and his right eye and giving it a perpetual squinting look. He was quiet, unobtrusive, rarely voicing any spoken opinion, but at the first sign of enemy craft his whole personality seemed to change. Daran was a deadly, efficient fighting machine, giving orders with a quiet confidence that no one would have expected that he possessed.

Bix shook his head, glanced down at his flight officer's insignia, and wondered how long it would take him to become a general. Not likely it would happen soon. No one would want to be commanded by someone who looked like he was sixteen instead of twenty-three, no matter how good a pilot he was.

Twitching impatiently, he jostled the pilot in front of him. The man turned around threateningly. Bix swallowed. He was huge-easily twice Bix's size, and he looked like he could crush anyone smaller than him without even breathing hard. The pilot glared down at him with angry green eyes. "Watch where you're going, Officer," he sneered.

Bix brought his eyes up to the man's insignia and took a step back, bumping into someone else behind him. "Sorry, commander," he mumbled, turning around to offer his apologies to whoever else he had assaulted. He drew a deep breath; it was only another young flight officer who shyly avoided Bix's gaze.

Hard fingers grabbed his shoulder, wrinkling his uniform and spinning him back around. "Sorry?" mimicked the other. "Look here, you rat-" He broke off in midsentence, looking at something across the room, saluted hurriedly. Bix, aware that most conversation had stopped, looked around, then spotted Admiral Harkov making his way across the bridge to the holochamber on the far side.

Bix half-smiled, threw up his hand in a military salute. Harkov had something about him that made Bix feel prouder and more alert when he was near, and he, as well as most others under Harkov's command, worshipped the ground the admiral walked on, or at least the nearest thing to it. Harkov made an effort to be personal with everyone, he was willing to stop and listen to compliments or complaints, and he didn't pull rank on others to better himself, as Bix had heard that other admirals did. He was rarely angry, and he understood-understood it when people made mistakes because they were tired or worried. That was the thing Bix liked about Harkov. He was an admiral not because of political or monetary ties to the Empire, but because he deserved to be admiral, and because he had worked hard to earn the respect of those who served under him.

Bix looked twice at the admiral, who was halfway to the holochamber, and frowned. The comfortable look of command that Harkov usually wore was gone; instead he looked tired, more like an old, old man with the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders. His eyelids were heavy and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth were more pronounced, and there was something else, too, the look of a man going to his doom. Oddly, though, he seemed to be smiling, in a wolfish sort of way that made danger tingles run up and down Bix's spine. Or maybe he was just imagining it.

Harkov nodded to everyone on the bridge and disappeared behind the holochamber door. The buzz of conversation resumed. Bix turned, surprised to find that he was next in line and that the bullying commander was gone. He handed his battle report data card to the General and waited.

The holochamber was dark, lit only by a single lamp above the heavy, closed door. No sound penetrated the room; no footsteps, no voices, not even the engine roars of the millions of craft that came and went from Imperial Center every hour. Nothing, save the vaguely sinister mechanical wheeze of breathing. In, out, in, out, measured, steady, waiting.

The Dark Lord of the Sith stood motionless, every fold of the black cloak in place, boots gleaming dully in the dim light. He stood alone before the holoproj, three of his bodyguards alert in the corridor outside. Not that it mattered; Darth Vader could dispatch a strong armed man without any physical exertion.

The black breath mark was the very picture of calm, but inside, Vader's thoughts swirled and his face twisted angrily. Pain shot through his jaw as the motion stretched scar tissue, but Vader paid no heed. It had now been fully ten standard minutes since the holo transmission from the Protector by the trembling bridge comm officer. Vader was not a patient man, and if Harkov did not reply soon, a lesson would have to be taught.

Vader felt the dark side of the Force nearer, opened himself, felt it fill him. So much power! When the dark side was with him, he felt more aware, more whole. I will show you such power as you cannot imagine, he heard the Emperor whisper from another time, another place. Yes, he could never have imagined such power, and he was only beginning to discover the depths of it. The Emperor was strong indeed, but someday, Vader would gain full mastery of the Dark Side and surpass him. Someday...

For a moment, Vader considered sending another transmission, then decided against it. Harkov would be nervous enough; Vader did not usually contact his commanders personally, and he did not want to frighten the man out of his wits. At least-not yet. Fear was an effective tool, but it had to be controlled, doled out in exactly the right amounts. It was like constructing a lightsaber gem. Too little heat and the gem would fail, too much and it would crack. But add just the right amount, and it could be transformed into a deadly weapon, made to serve the wielder's purposes. And in this case, the wielder was himself. Fear and the dark side of the Force made a deadly combination.

A motion caught his attention-the transmission light blinking on the holoproj panel. Vader turned, reached out with the Force, pressed a control. The air shimmered, coalesced into the figure of a lean, middle-aged Imperial admiral, fully shorter than Vader by a head. Vader noted the man's expression with satisfaction: the right mixture of submission, confidence, fear...and something else. Behind his mask, Vader frowned. What was it? Well, there would be time later to think about it. The man bowed, a short stiff military bow. "My lord Vader."

"Admiral Harkov," Vader replied in return, letting some of his anger seep out in his voice. Harkov heard it; his features on the holo image tightened visibly. Vader continued, each word clipped with impatience. "You are late in answering my transmission." He felt the dark side growing within him, swelled by his anger.

Harkov tilted his head up to look the Dark Lord in the face, then lowered it. It was not as if the breath mask offered any answers. Vader waited, anger growing. "I...had reasons, Lord Vader," the admiral finally replied, uttering the words as if they might be his last. "It was my mistake."

Vader almost sighed, forced himself to regulate his breathing. Harkov was a good officer and there was no reason to make a demonstration out of him for a small error. "I trust you will be more vigilant in the future, Admiral," he said, warningly, but he felt his anger ebbing, pushed down to a simmering heat deep inside, and felt the dark side ebb with it. Truly he needed to master the dark side so that he could call on it whenever he needed, not just when his anger was great. Master it completely. As the Emperor did.

On the holo image, Harkov gave a short nod, his features relaxing, the whatever-it-was gone now. Vader made himself a mental note to replay the tape of this transmission again later. It did not feel right, somehow. Later. "Very well, Admiral," he said. "You are aware that I do not usually contact officers personally."

"Yes, sir." A wary look came into Harkov's dark eyes.

Vader paused, letting the man worry a bit. Then he said: "I am transferring you to a new sector."

As the words sank in, Harkov looked confused, amazed, relieved, then turned his full attention on Vader. Good. The man was trustworthy at least, ready to do as he commanded. Pleased, Vader said, "Do you know of the Sepan system, Admiral?"

Harkov frowned, chewed his lip, clasped his hands behind his back. "I believe so...wasn't it one of the Old Republic's relatively minor shipping ports bordering the Rim? About ten days' travel from Coruscant by hyperspace?"

Vader nodded. Good knowledge of galactic topography was a mark of a strong commander, and the man before him certainly fit that requirement. Of course, Vader reminded himself, Harkov had been named the youngest admiral in the Fleet for good reason. "It is still a strong shipping center..." he allowed his words to trail off, "but of an entirely different nature."

The man was quick as well as intelligent; he caught on to Vader's implications at once. "If it is a basecamp for smugglers on the Rim, then why is the Empire bothering with it?"

Direct questions, direct answers. Harkov minced no words. Vader stored that in his mind, ready to retrieve later as evidence for the admiral...or against him. "Think of why smugglers collect there, Admiral," he said. "The Sepan system, especially its main planets, Ripoblus and Dimok, are a galactic crossroads, a centerpoint that provides easy access to more than five other different systems that are all within a day's journey from Sepan by hyperspace. If the Empire controlled Sepan, it would all but control those other systems as well."

"Ah." Harkov furrowed his brow, then continued with a bit of hesitation. "Then...may I ask why you are sending me there to root out smugglers? Others would do just as well, perhaps better." There was an undercurrent of fear in his voice, but also a boldness that overshadowed the fear. Had this been any other officer, Vader would have at least...reprimanded him for his lack of courtesy, but this was Drask Harkov, one of the best in the Fleet, and a man known for speaking his mind.

Vader was beginning to become irked at Harkov, for he was not accustomed to having his orders question. But he forced himself to swallow his anger. For all Harkov's barbed statements, he was a competent officer that understood Vader's implications. Harkov was natural, straightforward, not trembling with fear like some officers, not obedient to the point of servility like some others.

"I sent Admiral Mikov there two weeks ago." Harkov's head came up. "I gave him explicit instruction. However, Mikov was...creative." Vader felt renewed anger at the memory, pushed it away. "His actions stirred up renewed rivalry between two of the system's native human groups: the Dimok and the Ripoblus."

"Renewed?" Harkov frowned.

"The Dimok and the Ripoblus have been involved in a civil war for centuries. A cease fire was called ten years ago, albeit unwillingly, temporarily ending the war. Admiral Mikov, out of sheer stupidity, launched a raid on a Ripoblus storage camp and destroyed it. The Ripoblus blamed it on the Dimok..." Vader let his voice trail off.

Nodding, Harkov shifted his stance slightly. "I would take it that after ten years of forced peace, the fighting is rather heavy."

Vader felt grudging admiration through his annoyance; most officers would have needed that fact explained to them. "Yes. That is why I am sending you there instead. You were recommended as one of the best in the fleet, next to Thrawn, and Thrawn cannot be spared from his position on the other side of the Rim. Admiral Zaarin will arrive to take over your present position at Endor. He will also deliver to you the Interdictor cruiser Harpax to be used at your discretion in this campaign. You have your fleet with you?"

"I only have the Protector, and two frigates," Harkov said. "The Corvettes and the Commander are in dry dock being overhauled, but they should be ready by now."

"Then I shall have Zaarin bring them with him as well. Do not make the same mistakes Mikov did, Admiral. The Sepan war must be stopped at all costs and the smugglers driven out as well."

"What happened to Admiral Mikov?" Harkov asked, squarely meeting Vader's gaze.

"Mikov is none of your concern, Admiral," Vader snapped. He could be pushed only so far, and this man had pushed farther than he liked. "You are to concentrate on your assignment. Use force, but I want both groups' planets intact when you are finished."

"Yes, sir." Vader noticed Harkov's shoulders slump a centimeter, then straighten again. "My fleet will be ready whenever Zaarin arrives."

"Good." Vader stepped closer to the image above the holoproj. For a moment, he could see a renewal of the old fear in the admiral's face. "Do not fail me, Admiral Harkov," he said warningly.

Harkov saluted and vanished as Vader reached out with the Force, tapped the wall control to deactivate the holocom. The silence was suddenly very loud in the chamber, broken only by the sharp, punctuated hisses from the breath mask. He felt the dark side waiting, a cold and ruthless force, waiting for him to embrace and control. All that power, for him alone to command. Reaching out, he gathered it to him, felt the coldness settle inside him and at the same time felt his awareness heighten, felt dead, but yet alive, felt the dark take him until only one spot remained, one tiny insignificant spot of light. Yes, he was indeed on the way to mastering the dark side. Soon he would erase even that speck of light and be whole.

Inside his mask, Vader smiled. Then he turned abruptly on his heel and left the dark chamber.