Author's Note: Sorry for the delay on this one! Finals knocked the wind out of me, and I've got some drama going on in my personal life, too. Now that the term is over I expect I can return to weekly updates. This is a bit of a short chapter, because I've moved some material over to next week, but that just means the next chapter will be heavy on the content. Enjoy!
Imperial Palace, Coruscant, 2.27 AVY:
"The Emperor will see you now," announced Mas Amedda, Grand Vizier of the Galactic Empire, opening the doors to the throne room.
"Very good," Krennic said. He stood from the bench and dusted off his uniform; he had been waiting here for some time, his only company the rows of heroic statues lining the antechamber. Imperial heroes, commemorated in bronze. Perhaps he would one day receive the same treatment for his achievements.
Krennic walked past Amedda—a hideous blue-skinned alien, with horns and tusks, but nevertheless one of the Emperor's most influential servants—and entered the very center of Imperial power. The air was sterile, having no smell but the chemical scent of whatever they had used to scrub the windows. Light from the setting Coruscanti sun spilled in through circular windows.
This building had been the Jedi Temple, in a different age. Few traces remained of that order of monks and sorcerers. Their statues and murals had been removed long ago, replaced with art glorifying the New Order, and here, on the once-holy ground of the central spire, Palpatine dictated the fate of billions.
Krennic saw the throne at the far end of the room, and momentarily paused. It was never easy, going before the Emperor, knowing that one failure in his presence could mean disgrace or death. He had to force himself forward. Two rows of stormtroopers lined the central walkway—on either side, the floor curved upwards, culminating in an elevated row of control posts—and ahead, on a raised platform above a seemingly bottomless shaft, the Emperor rested on his throne. A pair of crimson-robed Royal Guards flanked him, with four more standing out in front. They held force pikes in lieu of blasters, foolishly in Krennic's opinion—while it was said that they had never lost a man in battle, he was sure that a sufficient number of elite troopers could take them down, especially at a distance.
There were others beside the Emperor. Darth Vader stood to the left, Grand Moff Tarkin on the right. Tarkin still commanded the Death Star, these days—undeservingly—but with the Rebel Alliance long since obliterated, there was little for it to do. Accordingly he usually parked the battle-station around Coruscant, and spent his time navigating the labyrinth of Imperial politics down on the surface.
The throne room was silent, save for Krennic's footsteps, as he approached the dais. He kept his gaze deferentially low. Up the first steps he went, past the first four guards, and he paused just before the second, shorter flight of four steps, standing finally in his place before the ruler of the galaxy. He knelt.
"Your Majesty," he said, his eyes closed and his head down. "It is an honor."
"Director Krennic," replied Palpatine. "You may stand."
Krennic rose, and regarded the Emperor. He was an old man, shriveled and distorted beyond his years, not at all the charming and grandfatherly Chancellor who had led the Republic to its demise. Hardly anything of his face was visible underneath a sagging black hood; his hands were pale and gnarled.
Krennic dared not voice the thought aloud, of course, but between the hideous Emperor, the alien Mas Amedda, and the sorcerous, half-mechanical Vader, the highest ranks of the Empire comprised a gaggle of freaks. Perhaps the Empire would be better off with real humans in charge. One day, perhaps.
"Your little expedition cost us many ships," the Emperor went on. "Three were destroyed during the battle. Three more disappeared during the return flight, their hyperdrives evidently damaged. You are lucky to have returned at all, director—I am told the Steadfast was crippled during the engagement, its prow blasted off by a single enemy shell."
"Well… yes." Krennic pursed his lips. When he spoke again, it was hurriedly, and he raised a hand to emphasize his point. "But you must weigh the losses against all that we achieved. Thirteen worlds laid to waste, an enemy cruiser blasted to pieces—"
"You lost the battle, director," Tarkin spoke up. He too was going on in years, visibly older than he had been at the time of the Victory at Yavin. Wrinkles had advanced and his hair had receded. "This was our first engagement against the Imperium, and they dealt us a bloody nose. It goes to prove what I have maintained all along, which is that you, a mere project director, should not be in command of military assets. Just as you did with the Death Star, you try to step outside your bounds."
Krennic clenched his gloved fists.
"Have you a rebuttal for the Grand Moff?" Vader asked.
"Any officer would have lost as many ships, if not more. Who would you have put in command instead? Ozzel? Motti? Rax? Wouldn't have changed the fact that their projectile weapons are deadly against our understrength particle shields."
"The particle shield problem is being dealt with," Tarkin said.
"I know." Krennic shot him a glare. "I was the man who ordered it." He turned his gaze back towards Palpatine. "Your Majesty, repairs are proceeding on schedule, and I will be able to lead the detachment through the portal, with reinforcements, within a few weeks' time. Already my staff and I have drawn up plans for Operation Basilisk: we will seize our first foothold in the other galaxy. I can begin delivering you new worlds, just as I promised when I took charge of the Kryos Installation."
"You will not," Palpatine said.
He stamped a foot down. "Your Majesty, we have the initiative! We have to act now, while the enemy is still reeling from this attack!"
"I am not disputing that, director. I am disputing your capacity to lead the operation. You will turn over all documentation for Basilisk to Governor Tarkin, who will henceforth command all extragalactic forces."
Krennic raised an eyebrow. "He is leaving the Death Star behind?"
"For the moment," Tarkin said. What Krennic wouldn't give to put a blaster bolt in that man's chest… "Moff Jerjerrod will assume temporary command, until you complete the larger portal at Kryos—another aspect of your duties that you have neglected, I'd like to point out. Perhaps retiring from military adventures will allow you to refocus your efforts where the Empire actually needs them."
"I will do as His Majesty commands," Krennic said. "I want it made clear, though, that I did not fail. Take the starfighter battle, for instance. We won that."
"I will concede, your starfighters did very well," said Palpatine.
Krennic looked up. Perhaps this was his chance to save some face, and not look completely foolish before the Emperor. He pressed the point further: "Several of our pilots became aces. The most successful of them was one Luke Skywalker, I believe. Seven kills, in an Interceptor—he's a double ace. Received the Imperial Badge of Merit for his actions."
Vader glanced towards Palpatine, then back at Krennic. "Skywalker."
"Something bothers you about the name?" The last time he'd heard the name had been some twenty years before—it had belonged to a man who'd risen to prominence during the Clone Wars, then disappeared so suddenly alongside the rest of the Jedi. Krennic had known better than to ask questions. "Surely… surely you don't think he might be related to Anakin Skywalker?"
Vader raised a hand to silence him. "You will see that this Skywalker is present at the victory gala aboard the Demolisher. I will inspect him personally."
Krennic bowed his head. "Yes, Lord Vader."
If Luke was the son of Anakin, that could make him Force-sensitive, which would explain how he had racked up so many kills—and also sign his death warrant. For a moment Krennic felt pity for the boy. He would show up to the banquet, rub elbows with high-ranking Imperials, and then die shortly afterwards. But such was the fate of Force-users: quiet elimination.
Palpatine spoke up again. "Your orders, director, are to continue expanding the Kryos Installation's capabilities, and to complete the second portal so that the Death Star may proceed through. Do you understand?"
Krennic knelt, fighting back a scowl. "As you wish, Your Majesty. Is there anything else you require of me?"
The contours of Imperial politics were aligned against him. Tarkin had the Emperor's clear favor, his blessing to capture glory in the other galaxy, while Krennic acted as a glorified ferryman shuttling ships from one universe to another. It was an outrage
"No, director. Return to your duties, and know your place."
"At once." Krennic stood, nodded towards the Emperor, Vader, and Tarkin, then turned and headed back down the steps towards the central walkway. Mas Amedda opened the door for him at the far end.
Tarkin would pay for all this, Krennic would make sure of that. He would not lie down and quietly accept such indignation. As he made for the door, he glanced over his shoulder at the Grand Moff, vowing silently that the next Imperial power shuffle would cut him down to size.
Maybe he could bring down Palpatine too, while he was at it.
Author's Note: Tune in next Wednesday for when the Sisters of Battle (finally) make their debut! Also, expect the first meeting of Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader...
