Summary:
The time is twenty-five years after the events of A New Hope. The Imperial Remnant will at last have a new Emperor soon, if all goes well, not by cloning, not by commandeering the body of an innocent child, and not by treacherous imitation, but by the Empire's own legitimate advances in technology. You see, there really was a shuttle crash at the Tallaan Shipyards contemporary with the Battle of Yavin. There was one survivor . . .
Disclaimer/Acknowledgments:
This fan fiction novel is based on the characters and situations created by
Kevin J. Anderson, Greg Bear, Barbara Hambly, George Lucas, James Luceno, Russ Manning, and Timothy Zahn. In the interest of protecting the intellectual property of these authors, this work is intended for publication and circulation in the fan fiction forum only. I do not own all of the characters and situations set forth in this book. No financial gain is sought from the circulation of this material, and no infringement is intended.
I express my gratitude to Anderson, Bear, Hambly, Lucas, Luceno, Manning, and Zahn for creating the framework of this opportunity to share my work with other Star Wars fans, and particularly to Mr. Lucas and Lucasfilm, Ltd. for allowing fan fiction forums to operate outside their copyrights.
I would also like to thank my mother for inspiring me to resume writing Star Wars fan fiction after a dry spell of over a decade. Thanks also to my friend from college, Dave, whose discussions, input, and inspiration helped me to develop some of my original characters.
Author's Note:
"New Impyria" is the centerpiece of the series "An Imperial Family."
This series of short stories, novellas, and this full-length novel chronicles four generations of the Tarkin family, through the waning years of the Old Republic, the rise and fall of the Galactic Empire, and the separation of the Imperial Remnant. The saga centers around the lives of Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin and his wife, Lady Typhani.
If you are tired of seeing the Empire whipped, then this series is for you!
NEW IMPYRIA
Chapter 1:
Of What Might Be
Thirty-six-year-old Lyscithea Tarkin-Lemelisk enjoyed the good fortune of inheriting her mother's outstanding business sense, as well as a bit of her father's ruthlessness. She had done an impeccable job of managing her family's business, Tarkin Megonite Corporation, a large and prosperous megonite moss mining operation on the planet Phelarion, since she and the rest of her family finally persuaded her mother, Lady Typhani Tarkin, to retire two years ago.
Lyscithea sat rigid and stern with her jaw set at the head of the conference table. Her short-cropped reddish-blonde hair seemed to bristle, and her bright blue eyes seemed to shoot laser bolts of ice at those assembled around her. This meeting had lasted far longer than it should have, and the excuses the leaders of the various management divisions tendered were far too feeble to penetrate her harsh sensibilities. Production was up, yes, but not up where Lyscithea wanted it.
The war had been over for six years, the managers had tried to argue repeatedly, and excessive production in the face of decreased demand for their product, the heat-sensitive and highly explosive megonite moss, could hurt the company's bottom line, especially since Lady Typhani, and late her daughter, refused to do business with the New Republic, despite the Republic's dire need for explosives and a renewable fuel source in the face of a new threat from outside the galaxy. However, upper management knew all too well that the historical fact of the war's end bore veracity only in the political and military arenas, and not around the Tarkin and Lemelisk family dining tables.
Just as Lyscithea was about to wreak one of her famously severe tongue-lashings upon her management team, a soft knock came at the conference room door. Lyscithea had ordered the comms turned off for this meeting. One of the managers rose to open the door after Lyscithea gestured to him with her hand, and she let out a sigh of disbelief and disgust. What underling employee would be so brash and stupid as to interrupt a comms- closed meeting, she seethed, and drew in her breath again to give the unfortunate messenger a public response he or she would remember all the way to the employment bureau.
Her personal secretary, an Oboolean female named Narrashah, stepped meekly inside the door and motioned to Lyscithea with one of her tentacles. Lyscithea let out the hot breath she had drawn, pushed herself stiffly from her chair, and marched over to Narrashah. Together they stepped into the corridor outside the conference room. Narrashah looked concerned. "Mrs. Lemelisk," she began respectfully, with more than a bit of a quiver in her voice, "It's your mother on the comm. She says it's an emergency, and she sounds pretty upset." For a moment, Lyscithea seemed to let her guard down.
"Thank you, Narrashah," she said, "I'll take it in my office."
Lyscithea walked the few paces across the lobby, past the now very carefully shielded and blaster-proof megonite display, to the beautiful, spacious and fully restored office that had been her mother's for so many decades. Lyscithea closed the door behind her, and picked up the comm port from her personal desk, a spectacularly intricate carved writing table of the deepest red wood of the Blood Tree, a gift long ago given to her father by an associate who was a member of the Blood Carver clan. The table had been relegated to the mine offices when the associate proved to be less than her father estimated, but Lyscithea had always liked it.
"Mother," she spoke softly into the comm port, "What is it?" expecting to be told of yet another act of asinine stupidity that the embarrassing disgrace to the entire family, her Rebel-scum cousin Rivoche, had done lately.
"Scythi, we have to go to Bastion right away!" Her mother's voice cracked, and Lyscithea could tell that she had been crying.
"All right, Mother, calm down. What's going on on Bastion, and we who?" Lyscithea asked, surprised at an urgent summons to the Empire's new capital planet. The Empire had selected it as capital and site of the new Imperial Military Training Academy Headquarters after Carida had been destroyed some years earlier by a war renegade who had stolen Imperial technology and used it against its creators, and after Coruscant had been lost to the New Republic.
Lady Typhani took a moment to answer. "Regent Viorska wants to discuss something with us--me, you, your sister, and your Aunt Morgana!" She broke into tears again, but this time Lyscithea realized that they were tears of joy! Her heart swelled, she sucked in her breath with a sharp gasp, and her free hand clapped to her mouth.
"Mother, do you think they--can they--do they think there's a chance now?" Lyscithea asked her mother excitedly.
"They didn't say," Lady Typhani replied, "but what else can it be?"
"You're sure Rivoche is not up to no good again, behind this?" Lyscithea asked and warned, now clenching her fist. "It could be a trap."
"I was assured we'd have the strongest of escorts, perhaps a Destroyer if we want it. Besides, Scythi, I seriously doubt Rivoche could have even the remotest influence with Regent Viorska. Why, he'd kill her on the spot, you know that," her mother said, her voice becoming firm again.
"As would I!" Lyscithea responded vehemently, turning her head into the comm port. She had long vowed that if she ever got the chance, she would kill Rivoche for what she had done to her older sister. On that note . . . "Have you called Lyjéa?" she asked her mother.
"Yes. She'll be flying over from Eriadu as soon as classes let out. Morgana is on her way as well. We'll leave from here as soon as Lyjéa arrives," Lady Typhani explained. Thirty-eight-year-old Lyjéa had declined the helm of her family's company, choosing instead to retain her tenured teaching and research post in technical communications on the faculty of the Imperial University of Eriadu.
"I'm going to head home now, tell Kormath what's going on, and--and get the boys settled in. Any idea how long we'll be?" Lyscithea asked her mother.
"A day or two, perhaps," Lady Typhani speculated.
Lyscithea put down the comm port and sank into the comfortable upholstery of her office chair, a Sienar Design Systems wonder that molded itself perfectly to the body of its occupant. Lyscithea was too hard-boiled to be shocked, but one could say that she sat presently stunned. Could it be, after all these years?
Lyscithea set her briefbag down with one hand as she cast the other around the shoulders of her husband, Kormath Lemelisk, son of Death Star chief engineer Bevel Lemelisk. "Your mom called. She said she'd try to catch you at work," he said after their customary evening kiss.
"Oh, she got me," Lyscithea said, "Mother, Lyjéa, Aunt Morgana, and I have been summoned to Bastion by Regent Viorska."
"Even Morga--" Kormath broke off, taken aback at what it must mean. "Aw, Scythi, that's great! I can't wait--"
She put a finger over his lips as their three rowdy young sons scampered into the room. "I don't want to say anything, especially to the boys. We're not even sure what this is about yet--or if it will be successful even if it is possible."
"Yeah, sure. I understand. I think that's best," Kormath agreed, reaching down to scruff the head of his oldest son, water-blaster wielding eight-year-old Wilhuff Adrian.
"Mom! Mom! I got another star on my math test!" declared six-year-old Bevel Kormath, destined to become a mathematical and engineering--if not political and military--genius after both of his grandfathers, thrusting the paper at his mother. Lyscithea stooped down to praise her middle son, and also to hug three-year-old Taeodor Palpatine as he too came up for some attention.
The adults shooed the boys into the family room to watch holovision, and Kormath followed Lyscithea into their bedroom, where she proceeded to the closet to remove a garment bag. "You're leaving tonight?" Kormath asked.
"Unfortunately," Lyscithea signed. "Would you please call Bharina in here to help me pack some things?"
"Sure," Kormath said as he turned to call for the requested servant. "Don't suppose I could go along?"
Lyscithea dropped her makeup bag on her dressing table and said flatly to his reflection in the mirror, "I don't think so."
"I'm gonna worry. Wait a minute, where the hell is Rivoche?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.
"Rotting in the stomach of a Tatooinian Sarlac, I hope!" Lyscithea declared. "No, Mother doesn't think she's in on this. Besides, Destroyer escort."
"Damn!" Kormath exclaimed.
"Well, with four of us going to the same location . . ."
Kormath nodded in understanding, but Lyscithea's last comment did not make him feel any better.
The time is twenty-five years after the events of A New Hope. The Imperial Remnant will at last have a new Emperor soon, if all goes well, not by cloning, not by commandeering the body of an innocent child, and not by treacherous imitation, but by the Empire's own legitimate advances in technology. You see, there really was a shuttle crash at the Tallaan Shipyards contemporary with the Battle of Yavin. There was one survivor . . .
Disclaimer/Acknowledgments:
This fan fiction novel is based on the characters and situations created by
Kevin J. Anderson, Greg Bear, Barbara Hambly, George Lucas, James Luceno, Russ Manning, and Timothy Zahn. In the interest of protecting the intellectual property of these authors, this work is intended for publication and circulation in the fan fiction forum only. I do not own all of the characters and situations set forth in this book. No financial gain is sought from the circulation of this material, and no infringement is intended.
I express my gratitude to Anderson, Bear, Hambly, Lucas, Luceno, Manning, and Zahn for creating the framework of this opportunity to share my work with other Star Wars fans, and particularly to Mr. Lucas and Lucasfilm, Ltd. for allowing fan fiction forums to operate outside their copyrights.
I would also like to thank my mother for inspiring me to resume writing Star Wars fan fiction after a dry spell of over a decade. Thanks also to my friend from college, Dave, whose discussions, input, and inspiration helped me to develop some of my original characters.
Author's Note:
"New Impyria" is the centerpiece of the series "An Imperial Family."
This series of short stories, novellas, and this full-length novel chronicles four generations of the Tarkin family, through the waning years of the Old Republic, the rise and fall of the Galactic Empire, and the separation of the Imperial Remnant. The saga centers around the lives of Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin and his wife, Lady Typhani.
If you are tired of seeing the Empire whipped, then this series is for you!
NEW IMPYRIA
Chapter 1:
Of What Might Be
Thirty-six-year-old Lyscithea Tarkin-Lemelisk enjoyed the good fortune of inheriting her mother's outstanding business sense, as well as a bit of her father's ruthlessness. She had done an impeccable job of managing her family's business, Tarkin Megonite Corporation, a large and prosperous megonite moss mining operation on the planet Phelarion, since she and the rest of her family finally persuaded her mother, Lady Typhani Tarkin, to retire two years ago.
Lyscithea sat rigid and stern with her jaw set at the head of the conference table. Her short-cropped reddish-blonde hair seemed to bristle, and her bright blue eyes seemed to shoot laser bolts of ice at those assembled around her. This meeting had lasted far longer than it should have, and the excuses the leaders of the various management divisions tendered were far too feeble to penetrate her harsh sensibilities. Production was up, yes, but not up where Lyscithea wanted it.
The war had been over for six years, the managers had tried to argue repeatedly, and excessive production in the face of decreased demand for their product, the heat-sensitive and highly explosive megonite moss, could hurt the company's bottom line, especially since Lady Typhani, and late her daughter, refused to do business with the New Republic, despite the Republic's dire need for explosives and a renewable fuel source in the face of a new threat from outside the galaxy. However, upper management knew all too well that the historical fact of the war's end bore veracity only in the political and military arenas, and not around the Tarkin and Lemelisk family dining tables.
Just as Lyscithea was about to wreak one of her famously severe tongue-lashings upon her management team, a soft knock came at the conference room door. Lyscithea had ordered the comms turned off for this meeting. One of the managers rose to open the door after Lyscithea gestured to him with her hand, and she let out a sigh of disbelief and disgust. What underling employee would be so brash and stupid as to interrupt a comms- closed meeting, she seethed, and drew in her breath again to give the unfortunate messenger a public response he or she would remember all the way to the employment bureau.
Her personal secretary, an Oboolean female named Narrashah, stepped meekly inside the door and motioned to Lyscithea with one of her tentacles. Lyscithea let out the hot breath she had drawn, pushed herself stiffly from her chair, and marched over to Narrashah. Together they stepped into the corridor outside the conference room. Narrashah looked concerned. "Mrs. Lemelisk," she began respectfully, with more than a bit of a quiver in her voice, "It's your mother on the comm. She says it's an emergency, and she sounds pretty upset." For a moment, Lyscithea seemed to let her guard down.
"Thank you, Narrashah," she said, "I'll take it in my office."
Lyscithea walked the few paces across the lobby, past the now very carefully shielded and blaster-proof megonite display, to the beautiful, spacious and fully restored office that had been her mother's for so many decades. Lyscithea closed the door behind her, and picked up the comm port from her personal desk, a spectacularly intricate carved writing table of the deepest red wood of the Blood Tree, a gift long ago given to her father by an associate who was a member of the Blood Carver clan. The table had been relegated to the mine offices when the associate proved to be less than her father estimated, but Lyscithea had always liked it.
"Mother," she spoke softly into the comm port, "What is it?" expecting to be told of yet another act of asinine stupidity that the embarrassing disgrace to the entire family, her Rebel-scum cousin Rivoche, had done lately.
"Scythi, we have to go to Bastion right away!" Her mother's voice cracked, and Lyscithea could tell that she had been crying.
"All right, Mother, calm down. What's going on on Bastion, and we who?" Lyscithea asked, surprised at an urgent summons to the Empire's new capital planet. The Empire had selected it as capital and site of the new Imperial Military Training Academy Headquarters after Carida had been destroyed some years earlier by a war renegade who had stolen Imperial technology and used it against its creators, and after Coruscant had been lost to the New Republic.
Lady Typhani took a moment to answer. "Regent Viorska wants to discuss something with us--me, you, your sister, and your Aunt Morgana!" She broke into tears again, but this time Lyscithea realized that they were tears of joy! Her heart swelled, she sucked in her breath with a sharp gasp, and her free hand clapped to her mouth.
"Mother, do you think they--can they--do they think there's a chance now?" Lyscithea asked her mother excitedly.
"They didn't say," Lady Typhani replied, "but what else can it be?"
"You're sure Rivoche is not up to no good again, behind this?" Lyscithea asked and warned, now clenching her fist. "It could be a trap."
"I was assured we'd have the strongest of escorts, perhaps a Destroyer if we want it. Besides, Scythi, I seriously doubt Rivoche could have even the remotest influence with Regent Viorska. Why, he'd kill her on the spot, you know that," her mother said, her voice becoming firm again.
"As would I!" Lyscithea responded vehemently, turning her head into the comm port. She had long vowed that if she ever got the chance, she would kill Rivoche for what she had done to her older sister. On that note . . . "Have you called Lyjéa?" she asked her mother.
"Yes. She'll be flying over from Eriadu as soon as classes let out. Morgana is on her way as well. We'll leave from here as soon as Lyjéa arrives," Lady Typhani explained. Thirty-eight-year-old Lyjéa had declined the helm of her family's company, choosing instead to retain her tenured teaching and research post in technical communications on the faculty of the Imperial University of Eriadu.
"I'm going to head home now, tell Kormath what's going on, and--and get the boys settled in. Any idea how long we'll be?" Lyscithea asked her mother.
"A day or two, perhaps," Lady Typhani speculated.
Lyscithea put down the comm port and sank into the comfortable upholstery of her office chair, a Sienar Design Systems wonder that molded itself perfectly to the body of its occupant. Lyscithea was too hard-boiled to be shocked, but one could say that she sat presently stunned. Could it be, after all these years?
Lyscithea set her briefbag down with one hand as she cast the other around the shoulders of her husband, Kormath Lemelisk, son of Death Star chief engineer Bevel Lemelisk. "Your mom called. She said she'd try to catch you at work," he said after their customary evening kiss.
"Oh, she got me," Lyscithea said, "Mother, Lyjéa, Aunt Morgana, and I have been summoned to Bastion by Regent Viorska."
"Even Morga--" Kormath broke off, taken aback at what it must mean. "Aw, Scythi, that's great! I can't wait--"
She put a finger over his lips as their three rowdy young sons scampered into the room. "I don't want to say anything, especially to the boys. We're not even sure what this is about yet--or if it will be successful even if it is possible."
"Yeah, sure. I understand. I think that's best," Kormath agreed, reaching down to scruff the head of his oldest son, water-blaster wielding eight-year-old Wilhuff Adrian.
"Mom! Mom! I got another star on my math test!" declared six-year-old Bevel Kormath, destined to become a mathematical and engineering--if not political and military--genius after both of his grandfathers, thrusting the paper at his mother. Lyscithea stooped down to praise her middle son, and also to hug three-year-old Taeodor Palpatine as he too came up for some attention.
The adults shooed the boys into the family room to watch holovision, and Kormath followed Lyscithea into their bedroom, where she proceeded to the closet to remove a garment bag. "You're leaving tonight?" Kormath asked.
"Unfortunately," Lyscithea signed. "Would you please call Bharina in here to help me pack some things?"
"Sure," Kormath said as he turned to call for the requested servant. "Don't suppose I could go along?"
Lyscithea dropped her makeup bag on her dressing table and said flatly to his reflection in the mirror, "I don't think so."
"I'm gonna worry. Wait a minute, where the hell is Rivoche?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.
"Rotting in the stomach of a Tatooinian Sarlac, I hope!" Lyscithea declared. "No, Mother doesn't think she's in on this. Besides, Destroyer escort."
"Damn!" Kormath exclaimed.
"Well, with four of us going to the same location . . ."
Kormath nodded in understanding, but Lyscithea's last comment did not make him feel any better.