All the regular people aboard the Interrogator know who he is. When Gaius disembarks from his transport into the busy hangar bay and throws back his hood, he is immediately recognized. Maybe that shouldn't be a surprise given how distinctive he looks. The pale skin, the shaved head, the bulk, the height . . . he looks nothing like the ancestral Sith with their sinewy lean bodies, ruddy complexions, and genetic remnant tentacle beards. He's one of very few Dark overlords who looks like the Interrogator's fully human, almost exclusively colonial crew. Moreover, he's the hero of Korriban, giving him special celebrity status. So, when he marches down the ramp into view, spontaneous applause breaks out.

Gaius can't quite suppress his smile. The Naval Lords might not like him, but the Naval rank and file approve.

A uniformed officer approaches to salute. "Welcome aboard, my Lord."

Gaius merely nods back. The Lords of the Sith have their own pecking order, and it is separate from the regular military. Young and inexperienced though he is, by default he outranks even the most senior career commissioned officer. That's because the regular military exists to serve their Dark warlords. As such, two crew members now step up to heft his belongings. Even on a warship in enemy territory, the Lords of the Sith are waited on hand and foot. Wherever they go, the elite of the Dark Side live a life of servants.

Their little parade—himself, his receiving officer, and the two crew members—march through the cruiser as Gaius is conducted to his quarters. The scene in the hangar bay repeats itself several times. He gets a few whistles and whoops, but mostly he gets double takes and polite applause. Everyone is excited to have him onboard, his officer escort tells him. Darth Angral announced it to the senior staff this morning and the news spread fast.

As a junior Lord, Gaius will share a two-bedroom suite with another young Lord. He figures it will be like his days at the Academy in the dorm. With any luck, he'll get Portia's brother as a roommate and he can use that proximity to make headway with her family.

His quarters turn out to be surprisingly spacious, but his roommate is nowhere to be found. Gaius hunkers down at the dining table. He busies himself finishing a few minor repairs to Darth Vindican's highly customized saberstaff that was damaged on Korriban. And that's when his roommate wanders in. Both men sense each other in the Force before they actually lay eyes on one another.

Gaius looks up to deduce that the newcomer is not Cato Metellus. His roommate is a stranger who looks entirely average. Not tall, not short. Not big, not small. Not handsome, not ugly. Just entirely unremarkable. He's red, naturally, but his features are a mix of human Dark Jedi ancestry and ethnic pureblood Sith. And in that respect, his roommate resembles most of the aristocracy.

"Hello. You're uh—"

"Malgus."

"Right. My Master said you were coming aboard. I'm Fidel." The young Lord, who looks to be four or five years his senior volunteers his full name now. "Hector Sabine."

"Gaius. Gaius Veradun."

Darth Fidel volunteers some backstory, "Lord Angral was my Master until last year."

"Vindican is . . . was . . . my Master . . . " Gaius answers. And damn, that's an awkward thing to say out loud. He cringes a little.

His new roommate gives him a sympathetic look. "Sorry for your loss. I remember him from the Academy. I never made it past the quarterfinals in my grade's tournament, but I was in his saber class twice. He was a great teacher. Very patient."

Gaius swallows a rush of guilt. He looks down at the table. "Yes. Yes, he was."

"Is that his sword?" Fidel asks, looking at the weapon he's working on. "I remember he liked a double-bladed staff."

"Yeah, it's his. He was always trying to get me to learn it," Gaius recalls a bit wistfully, "but I prefer single blades." He gestures to his own sword hilt also laying on the table.

His roommate crosses the room to take a better look at the two weapons. Weaponry is something of a fetish for the Lord class. Lords are always talking about weapons, debating the merits of weapons, or showing off their weapons. It's kind of a Sith Lord thing.

"Is that how you killed the Jedi? With a single blade?" Fidel is curious, like everyone, about the details of the Korriban fight.

"I used two single blades. My own sword and my Master's sword with one blade lit."

"That seems very fitting."

"I guess so." He's never thought about it that way.

Fidel leans over to inspect Vindican's impressive weapon. "That thing probably belongs in a museum now. That's the sword that took back our homeland."

"It's mine," Gaius growls possessively.

"Right. Of course." Lord Fidel immediately backs down.

Swords are important heirlooms among the Sith. They get passed down with great fanfare and they are imbued with much sentimental importance. Gaius glances over at Fidel's sword hilt and asks, "Is that your grandfather's?" It's an open invitation for the genealogy discussion that passes for icebreaking small talk among his kind.

"Nah, it's my late uncle's weapon. My mother's brother. He was Army, so you know . . ."

"Know what?" Gaius isn't following.

Fidel looks a little sheepish now. "You know . . ."

"No, I don't."

His roommate is embarrassed. Like he has spoken out of turn. "I guess you don't know. You couldn't. It's not in the history books and it never made the newsfeeds. There's no way a random would learn of it. But it's like the worst kept secret in the Empire . . ."

"Enlighten me."

"Alright. But you didn't hear it from me." Fidel takes the seat across from him at the table, lowers his head, and lowers his voice. And now, things get really interesting as his roommate reveals, "Twenty or so years ago, a bunch of Army Lords banded together to stage a coup."

"A coup? Against Vitiate?" Gaius ceases fiddling with Vindican's sword. Fidel has his full attention.

"My uncle was an Apprentice at the time. His Master was the ringleader."

"Let me guess—that's why he's your late uncle?"

Fidel nods. "Vitiate killed every Lord involved, their Apprentices, and their sons, no matter how young and no matter how innocent."

Gaius nods and approves with objective detachment, "Ruthless, but effective."

"By the time he was done, the Emperor murdered close to a third of the top Army Lords. The Navy's been the place to be ever since. There was a bit of a taint that lingered, you see . . ."

That makes sense. And now, so does his roommate's old fashioned Darth title Fidel, from fidelis, or 'loyal' in Old Sith. No doubt, his family chose that moniker to affirm the trustworthiness of the current generation.

He's curious. "What motivated the coup attempt?"

"The Army was frustrated with Vitiate dragging his feet about invading the Republic."

"And then, after he murdered a third of the Army command, Vitiate had the excuse he needed to delay some more?" quick thinking Gaius concludes. This is how his mind works. He's constantly analyzing scenarios and playing them out in his mind. "Sounds like a double win for the Dark Lord."

"Ironic, huh?" Fidel shrugs.

"Foreseeable, too," Gaius decides. "Tell me about the coup." Thinking of his conversation with Azamin, Gaius is intrigued. Maybe Darth Vitiate does have good reason for his baby-killing paranoia.

"There's not much to tell. The conspiracy succeeded in killing everyone at the Palace except the ones who mattered. They slaughtered hundreds and yet they still lost."

"Who was left?"

"Vitiate, of course. Some say Azamin was there too with some random Temple priest who survived. The rest—all the staff, all the servants, and all the guards—were dead. Supposedly, there was a secondary plot to take out all the Dark Council members at their homes that got aborted at the last second when they lost at the Palace."

That next move sounds about right. "You have to wipe out the entire old regime to win," Gaius observes. Otherwise, killing Vitiate just sets up someone from his inner circle to seize power.

"The Emperor ended up firmly in charge when all the dust settled," Fidel sighs. "My uncle was dead, along with my two boy cousins. And I got my uncle's sword and a story to tell."

Fidel meets his eyes across the table. His roommate makes an obligatory, halfhearted 'sorry, not sorry' mea culpa. "We're all ashamed of my uncle's actions, of course. Treason isn't exactly something to be proud of . . ." But from the look on Fidel's face, it's clear he would tell a different tale had the coup succeeded and his uncle turned out to be the Apprentice to the new Dark Lord. And that's to be expected, Gaius knows. Loyalties are always in part pragmatically motivated.

"They were fools," Gaius judges harshly. It's less a statement condemning the betrayal of Vitiate than it is a rejection of the rebels' underlying strategy. "Starting a civil war over starting a war against the Republic? That's stupid. You don't weaken your own side before you attack your enemy. It sets you up to fail."

"Yeah, well, it didn't work out. And here we are now, finally at war with the Republic."

"So who was your uncle's Master?"

"Darth Fulsome."

Gaius blinks and reacts. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. He's kind of infamous now. Although Fulsome and the rest were effectively erased from the holonet, from all Army records, from everything really. It's like they never existed."

That seems fitting punishment for treason, Gaius thinks. Make the would-be Dark Lord anonymous in his defeat. For the glory loving Sith elite, irrelevance is the ultimate diss.

He comments, "Well, that explains why I couldn't find Fulsome when I looked him up. He was good with a sword. Very good."

"How do you know?"

Gaius explains, "He fought a Jedi Master as the Emperor's champion once. I have the recording. Azamin gave it to me and Vindican to prepare for the Jedi on Korriban. Your dead uncle's Master had serious skills."

Fidel looks dumbfounded. "I'm surprised that recording survives."

"You want to see it?"

"Sure!"

"Hold on. It's on my datapad." Gaius gets up to fetch the device. He returns and pulls up the recording so they can watch.

"Wait—is watching this treason?" Fidel suddenly has qualms.

Gaius shrugs. "Only if you agree with his cause."

"Play it," Fidel decides.

Gaius starts the recording. He's studied it intensely, so mostly he watches his roommate watching the duel. The news that Emperor Vitiate might not be universally beloved is something of a revelation to him. He's a colonial kid whose formative years were replete with unrelenting patriotic propaganda. To him and everyone he grew up with, the forever Dark Lord, Emperor Vitiate, is the savior of their defeated people. He's the hero who rose to the occasion to single-handedly overcome chaos and infighting. Vitiate brought order to the Sith and soon will bring order to the galaxy at large. He is the once and future protector of the Dark Side, blessed with immortality by the Force itself. His power is immense, but it is equaled by his fortitude. For reclusive Darth Vitiate is the embodiment of all Dark virtues. He is strong and firm, sly and cunning, passionate about advancing his Empire and full of hatred for all who oppose him.

After well over a thousand years positioned at the top of the immense and ever-growing pyramid that is his Empire, Vitiate's rule just seems inevitable. It has never occurred to Gaius that anyone in their right mind might disagree. But then again, acceptance is something the lower classes like himself are accustomed to. People like him must live within limitations. When you don't get to make the rules and you must be careful about how and when you flout the rules, you find ways to succeed within the status quo. It is only elites who can actually envision themselves enacting revolution because they have the power to do so. And apparently, some have tried if this story of Lord Fulsome's revolt is true.

Just how unpopular is the Emperor among the ruling class? Gaius wonders what the Lords of the Sith really think when they talk amongst themselves. There had to be much widespread discontent behind closed doors for so many Army Lords to stage a coup attempt. Frankly, a large part of Gaius is appalled at their daring. He had just assumed that the entrenched Sith aristocracy was content. And why shouldn't they be? They have it all. All the wealth, all the prestige, and all the influence. How much do these people really need to feel satisfied? Just how greedy are they?

The coup was a high-risk endeavor that failed spectacularly. Gaius is too much of a tactician not to view it as foolhardy. You don't try to supplant a guy like Vitiate, you want to be his ally. You can't beat him, so you join him. It's simple, really.

Oblivious Fidel is watching the recording with rapt attention. "Who's the Jedi? And what's with all that hair? Hair buns are for women."

"Azamin said he was captured when his ship accidentally strayed into our territory. The Emperor told the Jedi he could live if he won the duel."

"He sure is fast."

"Watch his right side. Here it comes."

"Ouch. The was brutal."

"The next Force push is the best one. Wait for it . . . now!" Gaius narrates.

"That is sick! Just wicked!"

"They're pretty evenly matched once you watch it a few times. It only looks like Fulsome's winning the whole time."

"Was the Jedi you killed right-handed too?" Fidel wants to know.

"Yes. It's weird to fight someone right-handed. It's kind of like fighting a guy in a mirror."

His roommate nods, but he isn't listening. He's too busy staring at the rebel Lord who he has only heard about. "This is so weird. Like I barely remember my uncle. There's a picture of me as a toddler sitting on his knee at a birthday party. And I was too young to really know my cousins who died. But this Fulsome guy is why they died. They followed him on his damned fool idealistic crusade to remake the Empire . . . "

Gaius himself doesn't much care about long ago politics. His only interest is the duel itself. "Even Vindican thought Fulsome was excellent, and he was a hard grader. I bet your uncle was good with a sword given who his Master was."

"I really don't know . . . No one talks about him."

"Is that the throne room they're fighting in?" Gaius has wondered about this.

"Looks like it from what I remember," Fidel answers absently. "I couldn't get out of there fast enough after my presentation."

"Why?"

"Because my uncle and cousins were executed for treason, Malgus—why else? Look, Vitiate has a long memory and he holds a grudge. The dude is truly petrifying." Fidel shoots him a knowing look. "They say he can disintegrate you with his mind."

Bullshit. "No one can do that."

"He can."

"I going to meet him," Gaius brags. "I'm going to be presented after all."

His roommate scoffs. "No one meets him. You won't see him. He'll be up on his throne booming down a bunch of shit about duty and the Empire while you kneel and wait your turn to be introduced. Keep your head down, Malgus. There's nothing to see anyway. That throne room light is blinding."

Fidel turns back to the duel on the datapad. "Damn, that Jedi is fast."

"So were the Jedi on Korriban," Gaius recalls. "It's almost done. Don't look away. You'll miss it."

"Got him!" Fidel cheers as the Jedi Master loses his sword and his hand with it.

They both watch as Fidel's uncle's triumphant Master decapitates the Jedi loser.

Gaius muses aloud, "Fulsome should never have fought as champion if he was planning to stage a coup."

"Why does would that matter?"

"He just showed Vitiate all his best moves."

"Yeah . . . I guess you're right."

The recording ends. His excited roommate stands and tells him, "Hey, we need to show the other guys this. They're gonna love it. Malgus, you've got some contraband hidden history here."

"Sure." Maybe it will get him off on a better footing with his fellow Lords. It might help matters if he is better liked, Gaius thinks. This Fidel fellow seems fine. Maybe the rest will be open to him as well.

And that's how an hour later when the day shift is over and the rest of the Lords return from their various posts onboard the Interrogator, Gaius finds himself walking with his datapad into the Lords' lounge down the corridor from the row of Lords' quarters. If there is a first-class hospitality suite aboard an Imperial cruiser, this is it. For, as usual, the Lords only mix with their own kind.

Fidel starts the introductions. "Hey guys, this is—"

"We know who he is." A tall, familiar looking Lord who Gaius recognizes as Portia's brother crosses his arms and interrupts.

"The random," another Lord comments with undisguised disgust. "Our ship gets the random . . ."

There are six Lords present, and all of them are young. One has his nose in a datapad and he rudely doesn't even bother to look up. It's a clear snub. The other five sprawl in various poses on the couch or in chairs scattered about the room. They eye him coolly, giving strong vibes of dislike.

His roommate reads the room and pushes back. "Look, he's here. Deal with it."

A Lord from the couch sniffs, "I don't have to deal with any random."

"He's the Jedi killing random," Fidel reminds him.

"I'm not interested in his war story. He just got a head start while we were busy at Tingal Arm, that's all. We'll catch up."

Heads nod around the room to concur with that sentiment.

It prompts Gaius to sneer back, "You can try."

The Lord from the couch now stands up to proclaim, "A true Sith can take a Jedi easily."

Gaius bristles. He's Sith as much as anyone present. They're all from the same Empire, right? He takes a step forward and jeers back, "Is that why Darth Vindican's dead? Because it's so easy?"

The other Lord now shifts his left hand to rest on his hanging saber. It's an implicit threat. The tension in the room just escalated big time.

Fidel practically leaps to Gaius' side and starts talking him down from the brewing fight. "Easy there, big man." His roommate next addresses the menacing, aggressive Lord from the couch. "Don't be an asshole, Lucius. Keep your sword off and give the guy his due. And, Cato," Fidel turns to Portia's brother who is apparently something of a social leader amongst these Lords, "Malgus just got here. Wait five minutes before you piss him off, will you? We're all on the same team."

A deep voice now sounds from the doorway behind them. "Glad you gave that speech for me, Hector."

It's Darth Angral, the wunderkind of the Imperial Navy who at age thirty-four is the youngest ever Lord to command his own ship.

"My Lord!" Everyone in the room who isn't already standing leaps to their feet to show respect for their superior.

"At ease." Angral waves everyone back into their seats. He takes in the sight of Gaius still stubbornly standing toe-to-toe with the Lucius fellow and smirks. "Malgus, I guess I should have expected to find you ready to fight. Welcome aboard. You're on the bridge with me tomorrow morning. Oh-six-hundred. Don't be late."

Still eyeing the Lord opposite him, Gaius responds, "Yes, my Lord."

Darth Angral now turns to Portia's brother to command, "Adraas, when his bridge shift ends, give him the grand tour. Make sure he meets the senior infantry officers we have on board. Malgus, you won't be flying sorties or commanding from the bridge. You're for ground assault."

Darth Adraas frowns at this news. "I thought the random was Navy."

"Lord Malgus," Darth Angral pointedly emphasizes his title, "is Navy. But when we start taking new worlds soon, he'll be leading ground troops." It's an unusual assignment, and Gaius himself doesn't know what to make of it.

"Sernpidal, Belkadan, and Ruuria will formally secede from the Republic tomorrow and declare for the Empire," Angral now reveals. "Our covert political insurgencies on those worlds have been very effective. Hopefully, their example will encourage the neighboring systems that are left undefended to surrender. Our Emperor must be feeling magnanimous because they will be offered the same terms as the colony worlds we annex. Those that don't join us willingly will be destroyed and can surrender afterwards."

"So, we're the hammer for the negotiations?" Adraas surmises.

"Yes. We may need to make examples out of the first few reluctant worlds. It won't be pretty. My Lords, we're going to get our hands dirty."

"Bring it on," one of the others pipes up.

Listening Gaius thinks that's the wrong approach entirely. Turning to Angral, he complains, "We can't get bogged down on meaningless worlds. Skip them. We need to get to the Minos Cluster."

"That's the plan," his boss confirms. "But only after we take a few meaningless worlds first."

"Sluis Van too," Gaius presses.

Angral smiles indulgently. "Yes, yes. We'll get there in time."

"We should get there now," Gaius insists. "We need to destroy the Republic's ability to refurbish their fleet here in the Outer Rim. Those shipyards are the most strategic target out here."

Adraas turns to Fidel. "What's he talking about? Do you know what the random's talking about?"

Darth Angral shoots Adraas a reproving look. "I guess I don't have to ask who didn't do his homework, do I, Cato?" Adraas has the good grace to flush as Angral turns back to Gaius. "You're a budding strategist, Malgus?" The way Angral says this makes clear that his commanding officer views him as brawn, not brains.

But he answers back seriously, "Yes, my Lord. The priority ought to be to defeat the Republic, rather than to expand the Empire. We can annex all the Republic worlds we want once they are at our mercy."

Angral gives him a patient, condescending look. "Leave the strategy to your superiors. You just execute your missions and kill Jedi."

Maybe he ought to acknowledge that statement with a 'yes, my Lord,' but Gaius says nothing.

If Angral is annoyed, it doesn't show. He abruptly changes the topic from war to drinking. "Where's that bottle of brandy you had the other night? Did you drink it all?"

His old Apprentice Fidel grins, "Nope. Let me get you a glass, Master."

"Pour a glass for all of us."

"Yes, Master. And Master, Malgus has something you'll want to see."

"Indeed?" Angral raises an eyebrow at him.

Fidel answers for him. "It's bootleg footage of a long-ago duel with a Jedi."

Gaius explains to the group, "It's a recording that my Master and I were given as preparation for Korriban."

"Project it on the big screen," Angral commands. "Let's see."

Gaius queues up the recording while Fidel and Adraas start pouring drinks and handing them around. The recording begins to play until Darth Angral stands up and walks closer for a better look. He pauses the recording and squints at it. "That's Fulsome," he breathes out like he's seen a Force ghost.

Gaius confirms, "Yes."

"I watched this live as a kid. My parents let me stay up. Fulsome takes his hand and takes his head."

Again, Gaius confirms, "Yes."

"This duel was the culmination of his career," Angral recalls aloud. "He was a priest at the Palace Temple when he turned traitor. Malgus," Angral whirls, "where did you get this?"

"From Darth Azamin." It's a namedrop Gaius proud to say amid the room full of haters.

Angral digests this news. "I see." He thinks a moment, then turns back to stare at the man with the red sword paused mid-action on the screen. Frowning Darth Angral decides, "We'll watch this once and then I want you to delete it. Nothing good will come from dredging up this history now. Even twenty years later, it's impolitic. You killed your Jedi Master, Malgus. You don't need this recording anymore."

Whatever. He's seen it enough. Gaius nods, "Yes, my Lord."

Darth Angral turns around to address the group. He suddenly looks very solemn. "My Lords, whatever your frustrations may be about this war, about the Navy, about the Empire, and about Vitiate, Fulsome's solution is always the wrong choice. As Hector here knows personally, Fulsome took hundreds down with him. In the end, he accomplished nothing. All these years later, the Army is still weakened from his actions. The man did lasting damage to the Empire and to the families of the Lords he talked into his scheme. Do not," Angral urges in a voice that is made all the more effective for its quietness, "ever become Fulsome or support another Fulsome. Find a way to accomplish your goals while working within our leadership."

Gaius nods along with this wisdom. He's the only outsider among this group but even he knows that change has to have the support of the status quo to succeed. "I'm no traitor." He's holding a glass of brandy in his left hand like all the others. Gaius impulsively lifts it and toasts his Emperor. "To Dark Lord Vitiate."

Angral catches his eye and immediately and emphatically joins in. "To Lord Vitiate."

"To Vitiate," the rest affirm.

Angral hangs around long enough to finish his drink before he departs. And that's when Malgus judges it's time for him to exit as well. No one wants him here. He leaves for his quarters knowing full well that the others will spend the next few minutes talking about him. Their social ostracism is nothing new, but still . . . it's a hard thing not to belong.

Will marriage to someone like Portia help that? Gaius hopes so. There has to be a way to crack the code of the ruling class. To learn their off-the-record history, like this failed coup attempt, and to understand things like the extended kinship circles they are so proud of. These people have their own unwritten rules, their peculiar attitudes, and their secret scripts for how life should go. It all makes sense if you're raised one of them. But colonial born Gaius finds it bewildering. Their cultural mindset is just so foreign to him still. These simply aren't questions you can ask. No one's volunteering the information either. That's why he needs a wife who is an insider. It will make things so much easier.

And so, stressed and feeling lonely, he decides to text Portia.

Send me another picture?

The extreme distance between the Interrogator's position and Dromund Kaas means he has to wait two hours for her to reply. But he gets a response.

Portia takes the opportunity to remind him of her disapproval about Vindican. Julia won't feel like smiling.

He immediately types back. Make it just you. You're the one I want to see.

Sure enough, two hours later, he receives a picture. It's Portia in her favorite spot—the garden. She's posed with a flower tucked behind her ear and a coy smile on her face. The expression is very her, as is the 'felt cute, might delete later' caption.

He loves that pic. He's going to fall asleep fantasizing about that pic. About Portia wearing that flower behind her ear and nothing else. But first, he types back. That's not a selfie. Who took that pic? It's a beautiful portrait.

He gets his answer when he wakes. Portia has sent back a selfie of her and Darth Azamin. Portia is posed with the same flower only now it's between her teeth. Beside her, the old geezer statesman flashes a mostly gummy, goofy smile.

Gaius pauses on the photo, recalling how Azamin has warned him to stay away from Portia. It's clear that she and Azamin are very close. She must be like a granddaughter to him. For more than anything, this latest snap she sent looks like a silly, candid family photo.

It occurs to him now that a marriage alliance with Portia could be even more beneficial than he has previously assumed if old Azamin is involved in the background. Sure, Azamin won't take kindly to his warning being ignored. It may even earn Gaius some more Force lightning. But Portia's worth it. And besides, he's more the 'beg forgiveness' than the 'ask permission' type.

Gaius hurriedly writes back before he leaves to report to Darth Angral. I'll be home for my investiture sometime soon. Not sure when. But I want to see you.

Then, he heads for the Interrogator's bridge. He walks into the ship's command center and all heads turn save for Darth Angral's. The young star of the Imperial Navy looks heroic standing tall and still, silhouetted against the cosmos as he faces outward into the bleak void of space. But all Gaius can see is his startling red—red!—battle armor.

His boss turns and notices that he notices. "Some of us have to try to be distinctive," Angral drawls. "We don't all come by it naturally."

Gaius spends an inordinate amount of time wishing he could fit in. The idea that this consummate aristocrat might actively seek to stand out perplexes him. But remembering his late Master's repeated urgings that he employ more tact, Gaius merely eyes the tacky getup and smirks. "The Republic will definitely see you coming."

Angral throws back his head and laughs out loud. "Malgus, I've heard a lot about you, but I've never been told that you're funny."

"I'm not funny." He's too intense and self-conscious to be funny. "I'm just honest."

Angral chuckles some more. "Are you getting along with Fidel?" he asks about his new roommate, Angral's old Apprentice.

"He's fine."

"Hector's as affable as they come. If you can't get along with him, I'm kicking you off my ship. Got it?" Angral shoots him a pointed look. "Hector's pretty lethal even if he likes to play peacemaker. He's got a longer fuse than most, but he has his limits. Don't test them."

Gaius nods to acknowledge the warning. "Understood."

"Good. That's out of the way. Let's talk war, shall we?" Angral walks him over to the navigation command post and jabs a finger at a star map. "This is Barab, home to the reptilian species, the Barabel. You are going to singlehandedly lead the ground assault on the governmental administrative offices of their capital city. Your mission is to storm the premises and to assassinate as many of their leaders as possible. The objective is to destabilize their command-and-control capabilities."

Angral hands him a datafile. "Here's the information we have on their prime minister and other officials. There's also schematics for the building complex. You'll have a legion of troopers with you and we will provide an aerial bombardment to soften them up from above. But the specifics for how to get in and get out from the drop zone and the details for the on-site battle plan are yours to design. All the infantry officers will report to you on this mission."

Gaius blinks. He wasn't expecting this level of responsibility from the outset. He's never been on an infantry raid, but now he's in charge of commanding one? His eyes narrow. "So, I'm in charge?"

Angral confirms, "You're in charge. And you're on your own. Malgus, either someone up top thinks very highly of your abilities or they're determined to get you killed because you'll be the only Lord on the mission."

"I see." He gulps. This is a sink or swim assignment, for sure.

Angral keeps piling on. "This will be nothing like Korriban. You won't have the element of surprise. You'll be facing security guards and local defense forces, not dueling Jedi. But the Barabel are supposedly fierce and quick in combat. They are considerably more lethal than your average human."

"It's Army work."

"Yes. But ever since Darth Fulsome got a lot of the Army executed twenty years ago, the Navy's had to pick up the slack. Plus, most of the remaining experienced Army Lords have aged out of combat since our colonial expansion efforts wound down. The majority of the generals on the ground are laymen now, if you can believe it," Angral sniffs with patrician disdain. He references what Darth Fidel mentioned last night, "For years after Fulsome, only the most diehard Army families sent their sons to enlist."

"No one wants this work . . ." Gaius surmises aloud.

Angral shrugs. "The Navy's been the place to be. But the Navy is crowded, Malgus. You want to distinguish yourself? This is your chance. You can put your strategic mind to work on small-scale missions like this. Leave the big picture decisions to your superiors."

"Alright."

"Once your mission is complete, we will start a large-scale effort to subdue Barab. We'll be sending in ships to bomb their large cities to rubble." Angral explains, "It's the same basic plan the Empire used for decades to annex colony worlds. Once they surrender, we'll move on to the next world and the Army will set up the usual occupation."

"Got it."

"Think you can handle this?" It's a serious question.

That's Gaius' cue to reflexively boast, "Of course," with far more confidence than he feels. "How much time do I have to plan?"

"Five days. Maybe six. We're supposed to offer them a chance to surrender before I send you in. We'll set a deadline. Long before that deadline lapses, your mission launches."

"Okay."

"I want to review your preliminary battle plan in two days' time. Make it good and factor in contingencies. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that things go wrong in battle. Real war isn't like the textbooks."

Yes, he learned that fast at Korriban when things veered way off script.

"I'll help you in any way I can. I want this to be a win for both our columns. My reputation is on the line as much as yours, Malgus."

That offer is sincere. Gaius is grateful. "Thank you, my Lord."

And now, Angral broaches a still sore topic. "Azamin sent me a note saying you won't be getting another Master."

Gaius feels his ears burn. He says nothing.

But Angral perceives his lack of a replacement Master to be a mark of distinction, not punishment. Angral clearly disapproves, and he has no qualms about saying so. "I'm surprised at that decision, given how young you are. I know Korriban was a big deal, but you've got a lot to learn. I don't care what your talents or your M-count are, you need training like everyone else."

Damn, does he ever. Gaius hurries to concur, "Yes, my Lord," with as much humility as he can muster.

Angral frowns. "Watch the others. Learn from them. Learn from me. You get cocky and let all this early success go to your head, and you'll end up dead."

"Yes, my Lord."

"It's an unpopular opinion, but I think this war is going to be a marathon, not a sprint. The Republic will regroup and they will be formidable, like those Jedi you fought. So, take it one mission at a time. Focus on Barab."

Does Angral sense how intimidated he feels by the assignment? He must, because his boss looks him in the eye and proclaims, "You've got this, Malgus."

He tries to project confidence. "Yes, my Lord."

"The Force is with us."

He nods, like he's supposed to. But he's far from certain that the Force is his ally. Lately, Gaius worries that Darkness is his nemesis. It feels like the Force trolls him as much as his peers do. But heroes rise to the occasion, and it's time for him to step up. He's going to have to prove himself again and again, he knows, before he will change peoples' minds about him. If the Lords aboard the Interrogator are any indication, respect will be hard won.