"Principiis obsta, et respice finem."
—at the base of the statues of the Four Sages of Dwartii,
in High Galactic, this statement is carved.
I.
The Vizier.
A second ago, he was a light-century away.
A quiet boom, and instantly, General Cassio Tagge was in orbit around Tepasi. Sharklike, three metal "fins"—two pectoral, one dorsal—protruded from his spacecraft: a Lambda-class shuttle.
A second later, two durasteel spheres—each suspended by thin struts stretched between two sets of flat, paneled rectangles—materialized. The planet's supercontinent-superocean filled, like pupils, their transparisteel viewports; like monocles, on each cyclopic, winged "eyeball," were affixed hyperdrive engine rings, which immediately disengaged. Simultaneously, both fighter-pilots engaged twin ion engines. In sync, the shuttle pilot activated his own ship's sublights.
The TIE fighter escort flew in tight formation with Tagge's shuttle, and all three ships began their descent into Tepasi's atmosphere.
Tagge saw none of this. Since his departure from Death Star, he'd been napping, quite comfortably, in the private officer cabin.
Then his comlink beeped.
Without lifting his head from his pillow, he raised a hand from his chest, and dropped it onto the bunk's side-table with a smack. He felt around for the tiny device, fumbled with finding it, then finding it, returned his hand to the top of his chest, and pressed the activator.
Curtly, he answered: "Tagge."
"Sir, I'm sorry to disturb you, but we've made planetfall."
It was the shuttle's pilot.
Tagge sighed. He hesitated before sitting up, but military discipline compelled weary muscles into action. He threw his blanket aside, then moved his feet from the end of the mattress to the floor. He sat on the edge of the bunk, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and blinked away the blurriness of the room.
Tersley, he gave his acknowledgement: "Thank you, Lieutenant."
Then, standing, he went to the closet to dress.
Minutes later, he entered the cramped confines of the bridge. The co-pilot's seat was empty, but Tagge moved to stand behind the pilot's. Behind his back, he clasped his left hand tightly around his right wrist, and observed, silently, as the cloudy sky of his homeworld dissolved, becoming sea, then frozen shore, then thawing land, and the black mass of Tepasi City—a city of sparkling, jet-black towers dwarfed by a giant, skyscraping, central spire—rose from the horizon, dominating everything in reach of its shadows.
There was no suburban sprawl. The city was surrounded by a patchwork of dry, dead grass, and muddy, melting snow. New sedge and rush were just beginning to sprout. Shrubs grew. No trees. Tumbleweeds blew in the wind. Low-lying mountains, more like hills, encircled the brown and white meadow. Cottage country. In the summer months, it was awash with red poppies.
As the shuttle neared the city limits, it cast its own shadow on the wilderness below, causing myriad grass-dwelling beasts to look up, frightful, but curious, of the giant, metal birds that soared above. Soon, the TIE fighter escort broke formation, landing at an airfield, a military base, on the outskirts of the city.
The shuttle continued on, heading for its roost—a landing platform, shaped like an electro-pong paddle, jutting out of the city's tallest tower. Landing gear unsheathing like claws, it landed, then remained motionless for a few minutes, before the ramp, like a beak, opened, with a hiss.
Tagge descended the ramp, decompressing air steaming from exhaust vents in the ship's underbelly. Two private security guards were on his heels. Each wore a crisp, military-style uniform. Insignia-less. Green. Gold-trimmed collars and cuffs. Blasters, SE-14's, hung in black leather holsters strapped to their thighs. They wore knee-high boots, like Tagge's. But his uniform was an unsaturated olive drab. Loose fitting jodhpurs. Double-breasted tunic. Code cylinders were tucked into tight pockets below the top of each shoulder. A silver plaque was pinned over his heart—displaying a single immaculate row of six red squares.
There were no stormtroopers on the platform to receive their returning General. This was a loyal Imperial world. A model world. A shining pillar of the Empire's glorious New Order. Its status in the pantheon of exemplar systems rivaled even that of Vardos'. Not only was it a triumph of political stability, it was a bastion of economic success. Its constituents enjoyed all the fruits of galactic labour. There was peace; there was security. Tagge had no enemies here.
Without breaking his stride, he held up a hand, commanding his guardsmen to remain by the ramp. Incisively, he marched on without them, towards the platform's exit. The edges of the walkway had no railings, only a series of steadily flashing, red warning lights. At the end, a massive blast-door unsealed, vertically, autonomously, and Tagge entered the building.
Each step echoed throughout the featureless, windowless entrance hall, as he passed, handing on the wall, its only adornment—a great painting of the Emperor. His Excellency wore a plain, white tunic, with matching, perfectly pressed dress pants—a perfect crease down the middle of each pant leg. His hair was short, cropped, colourless. He stood upright. Proudly. No cane, despite his advanced age. Warm, blue eyes. A thin but benevolent smile. Hand raised high in the air, palm in. He was surrounded by children, all with happy, jubilant, human faces.
Palpatine. The saviour of civilization. The man who survived the Jedi's seditious assassination and coup attempt, who ended the destructive Clone Wars; the keeper of peace. The great reunifier, who rescued the Republic from being torn apart at the seams by the separatist menace. Tagge loved and even feared him—worshiped him, as he had his own father.
Painted eyes seemed to follow Tagge, as the hallway ended, opening up into a huge, open hall.
A woman stood at its center, before a desk with no chair, surrounded by dozens of computer monitors; like a nervous system, each was connected to a spinal column of thick, transcendent cabling, which rose up, up into the ceiling, connecting with their mainframe, an unseen brain.
Auburn hair fell on the satin shoulders of the woman's bright-yellow robe, skin-tight above her waist, but which flowed loose to create a perfect circle on the floor around her feet. Her reflection shone in the mirror sheen of the dark-chequered surface (dark-grey and black squares), like a solitary autumn tree on the edge of a waveless, black lake.
She was the Dowager-Queen of Tepasi. Executive Director of Tagge Company. Her Disciples, the men and women of its board. The Empire, her Shah-Tezh. The galaxy, her demesne. And Cassio: her loyal Vizier. Brother of her late husband.
She was Domina Tagge.
Domina surveyed her brother-in-law's face. Despite a mere four decades of life, the stress of his commission was starting to show. Agelines were forming on his forehead, at the edges of his eyes, at the corners of his mouth. His hairline was starting to recede, zigzagging like a torn piece of paper.
Warmly, she greeted him: "Cassio. Welcome home."
"My lady." Graciously, Tagge kissed the back of his sister-in-law's outstretched hand.
"How was your trip?"
Banal, Tagge thought. Frivolous. Tagge had sat in an audience of revelers, before a stage for Tarkin's vanity, and listened to hours of self-congratulatory platitudes from the likes of Motti, and the other groveling careerists in Tarkin's fraternity. Apparatchik of the new order—classmates from Tarkin's Anaxes college days. War buddies. Fossils.
He'd voiced his concerns for the battle station. His appraisal of the Rebellion's strength—dismissed as posturing by the Emperor's advisors. Tagge believed they were mistaken—gravely so, in fact. He'd criticized, openly, despite the risks, the overconfidence of their political "science." Like the Halcyon of the old Republic, "unsinkable" ships had "sunk" before.
But soon, Tagge had realized that this wasn't what he was invited to tour Death Star for. Not to debate. Not to offer his professional opinion. To cheer, and to applaud. To witness a performance.
"Predictable," he concluded.
However, there had been one unexpected development: apparently, the Galactic Senate was no more. Dissolved, permanently, by the Emperor.
In practice, the Senate was a powerless, symbolic institution—a deplorable, hideous leftover of the old order. But the bureaucratic… resistance… it could generate, made it a constant thorn in the Emperor's side.
Its de jure dissolution, however, was not news to Domina. In fact, she had news to share with him. Promptly, she loaded a video file on one of her computers. Originally broadcast on the HoloNet's Public Affairs Network, the recording had since been deleted. Now, copies could only be accessed on the old CIS Shadowfeed.
The recording depicted the interior of the Senate Rotunda on Imperial Center, and its grand convocation: 1,024 daises encircling a single steeple rising from a six-spoked roundel inlaid in the floor. "Throat" of the galaxy—the public throne of the Emperor—its eternal Chancellor. One dais, raised by its repulsorlifts, hovered high above the others. On it, a woman stood. Alone. Short, crimson hair. Long, billowing, white robe. Metal jewelry hanging from her neck. Sleeved arms folded in front of her.
Mon Mothma. Fomentor. Tolerator of delusion and disorder. Scourge of progress.
She began.
"Friends:"
Tagge noted, contemptuously, that her friends were few and far between. The circular chamber was entirely empty, save for a handful of seats. The usual suspects: Kanz, Ojoster, Sujimis, Sern. With a smirk of satisfaction, Tagge realized that even Alderaan's seat was vacant. Neither Bail, nor Breha, nor their stubborn bastard latchkey, Leia, had bothered to attend.
Tagge listened as the senator for the Bormea sector spoke.
"Twenty years ago, we welcomed the death of liberty with thunderous applause. With his proclamation of victory to end the Clone Wars, Supreme Chancellor Palpatine, the once modest senator from Naboo, seized the reigns of this chamber, which reigned supreme for a millennia. It was, in fact, a proclamation of surrender—the capitulation of any surviving semblance of decency, to fear. He retains the War Powers we lent him.
"Today, as the last remnant of the old Republic is being swept away, there is naught but a whispering silence. Even the illusion of democracy is now vanquished and gone."
Democracy. Tagge sneered. What had been the Republic's "democracy," but the rule of an elite few over the silent majority? The organized impoverishment of human worlds—a legalized robbery. Humanity's systemic replacement by lesser life-forms. The demonization of their culture. Their history. Their way of life. Everything that made the Republic worth fighting for, democracy had slowly stripped away, until all that remained was an unrecognizable perversion.
Unabated, she continued.
"For twenty years, I have proselytized peaceful protest, and petitionment, and championed nomistic calls for reform. After the massacre on Ghorman—I cautioned patience. When the full extent of Imperial 'excess' in their 'pacification' of the Western Reaches was revealed, I encouraged magnanimity. When general strikes became armed uprisings, again and again, on Ferrix, Kast, Torrentor, Gridiron, and dozens of other Mid Rim Territories—I urged restraint. The time for such prudence has past.
"I no longer believe the Republic can be restored by judicial, or legislative means. The province of the Galactic Senate has been conquered by the Regional Governors, who lord over their dependencies like Hutts. The once pristine palais of justice, the Supreme Court, serves only to protect Palpatine, not the people: his will has become our Constitution. Under Palpatine, the whole system has rotted to its core. We are permitted one media. One faith. One purpose. To serve. Our only recourse—our only salvation—is violence. In short, to rebel.
"As such, I must confess what the Emperor has long suspected: I am a member of the Rebel Alliance. This coalition was formed to oppose, openly, this Galactic Empire; to restore, militarily, our Galactic Republic.
"I urge now, every free-thinking being to resist, by whatever means are available to you. With others, if possible. By yourself, if necessary. There will be consequences for resisting. They will be harsh. To find the strength to break free from these chafing bonds, a single moment of further servitude must be intolerable. And so, it will get worse. Much worse, before it's over. Persevere. Please.
"To the people of Chandrila, my homeworld, and my family: please forgive me. For my crime, the Emperor's revanchism against you will be severe.
"To the rest of the galaxy who suffer daily under the Emperor's heel: you did not choose this reality. This reality was forced upon you by our failure. You elected us to serve you, not to serve us. To make a brighter day, every day, for everyone. Instead, we acquiesced to fear, subsidized your future, tied it to the selfish interests of a corrupt, financial oligarchy, and their military-industrial vavasour. It is you who has paid the heaviest price for a thousand years of peace, shattered.
"I am sorry that there will once again be war. But without it, we will never again be free."
She paused briefly before her conclusion.
"The sun has now set. The long night is here. But a new sun will rise. Look to the horizon. Our day will come again.
"Long live the Republic."
Her final statement was not exclamatory. There was no one to galvanize. There was no applause. No one was listening.
"Traitor," Tagge declared. If he wasn't indoors, he would've spat.
Domina concurred. "It took two hours for the Ubiqtorate to issue an arrest warrant. But by then, she'd already fled. They charged her with seditious conspiracy, and the facilitation of terrorist activity."
And a cowardly one at that, Tagge thought. But perhaps this was not the worst outcome. She was likely to be tried in absentia. Then, when she was captured—which, as all traitors invariably were, she inevitably would be—there could be a swift, summary execution. No need to stand on ceremony. No defiant, last words to rouse the enemy, or for them to disseminate. Simply a wall, a firing squad, the shedding of blood. Secret burial in an unmarked grave.
Tagge listened, idly, as Domina ruminated about the absorption of Chandrila into her fief. Not every Chandrilan citizen was a traitor. Many remained patriots. Perhaps she could petition the Council of Moffs to incorporate a new oversector. Complete with a new governorship, of course…
Switching topics suddenly, Tagge wondered aloud: "How's business?"
His father's business. Then his brother's. Now the company of his late brother's wife.
Domina was mid-sentence.
"Flourishing." She waved at the monitors surrounding her, displaying hundreds of tables, graphs, readouts, and reports on the status of TaggeCo. Where Kuat produced its starships, and Sienar produced its starfighters, TaggeCo produced everything else the Empire's military machine required—rations, uniforms, even the procurement of hypermatter and medical supplies—Tagge Company fed, fueled, and clothed the Imperial Military.
Together, Cassio and Domina Tagge spent the rest of the morning in business and government meetings, which on Tepasi, were one and the same.
They retired for the afternoon to the Tagge family home—a luxurious, three-storey manse, hand-built by Tagge's great-grandfather, Ptolemy, and nestled in the hills. A small army of droids maintained the grounds, trimming hedges and watering seeded gardens which had yet to blossom. The same grounds in which he and his two brothers and their many cousins had spent countless hours of their childhood playing "Clones and Droids." Even when Cassio had become far too old for playing.
After dinner, Cassio and his sister rode Orbaks over the hills overlooking Tepasi City. From the peak, Tagge beheld their small kingdom, an island of calm in the Galactic Empire's tranquil sea. He thought of Alderaan and Chandrila, and the hypocrites who presided over their people—shameful, liberal tyrannies—for far too long. But perhaps not for much longer. Tepasi was everything they were not. It represented the galaxy's bright future—the preservation of its glorious past. It was paradise. It had survived the radicalized intelligentsia, their proliferation of anarchy, the barbarians at the gate. And it has stood the test of time.
They waited till the sun had sunk far below the hills, and watched for a while, the light of the planet's aurora glimmering in the night sky.
Later, they retreated to the sitting room. They were sipping wine (an Alderaanian white), wordlessly, before a roaring fireplace, below a painting of the Tagge family patriarch, when a blemishless golden protocol droid interrupted the evening's pleasant gloom.
"Sir, you have a caller."
Tagge waved him away. "I'll respond in the morning."
"Sir, my apologies. But it's on the encrypted channel. Priority one."
He and his sister exchanged frowns. The Imperial Ruling Council.
Tagge emptied his glass, then left the room.
Blue—though he knew his robes were actually a flamboyant purple—Sate Pestage, Imperial Vizier, stood on the desk of Tagge's personal office. The walls were covered with the mounted, disembodied, taxidermied heads of a number of antlered creatures, some native to Tepasi, most not. Some were shot by Tagge's father, others by him or his brothers. And now, like all of them…
"Tarkin is dead.
"Death Star has been destroyed.
"You will take your sector fleet to the Gordian Reach. To the fourth moon of Yavin. There, you will find the Rebels' hidden fortress. None are to escape alive. Reinforcements await you on Toprawa. This is your Emperor's command. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Your Eminence."
Not quite a politician, Sate Pestage was no mere court noble either. He was a member of the Ruling Council. The nomenclature was a bit of a misnomer. Officially, the Emperor was Supreme Commander of the Imperial Military. Day-to-day, its administration was overseen by the Joint-Chiefs (though the Emperor's appointment of the Grand Admirals had mostly relegated them to an advisory role); where the "Ruling" Council involved itself in military matters, it was an indication of the Emperor taking a personal interest. Its members were accountable solely to him. Their words were his words. To be given orders from Sate Pestage was like divine intervention.
The Vizier must've seen the surprise on Tagge's face, despite his effort to maintain a disciplined, stoic composure.
"You have questions."
That his statement was not, itself, a question, was not lost on Tagge. He hesitated. Then asked: "The Emperor selected me for this? Where is Thrawn?"
"Unavailable. Special assignment."
'Special assignment.' So the rumours are true, Tagge thought. Thrawn had gone missing.
Thrawn was not human. But Tagge was nothing if not pragmatic—Thrawn was an alien for whom he had to admit a begrudging respect. The Empire had no finer military strategist than the Chiss Admiral. The absence of his methodology would be felt far and wide. Too many members of High Command were political idealists.
"And Motti?"
"Dead, also."
Motti's fanatical statement made during the conference on Death Star, when Tagge had suggested consideration for the incursion of Rebel spies in the data vault on Scarif, replayed in his mind. Any attack made by the Rebels against this station would be a useless gesture, Motti had declared dismissively. No matter what technical data they've obtained. This station is now the ultimate power in the universe!
Tagge had baulked then at Motti's expansionist rhetoric, and he baulked now. To Tagge, Motti's and the other officers' quasi-religious obsession with conquest beyond the borders of the known galaxy, was absurd. As was their shortsightedness when it came to the very real threat of insurrection in the one they currently controlled.
But he derived no satisfaction from the knowledge of their deaths. While some officers considered "Rim nobility" such as Motti as inherently lesser, Tagge had no use for such prejudices. He'd been critical of their hubris, but his disdain was purely practical. Including Motti, and Tarkin, millions of loyal Imperials were stationed on Death Star. Snuffed out in an instant. It was an act of terrorism, make no mistake. But it was also an unprecedented strategic failure.
An avoidable one.
He thought of the alternatives that had been proposed over the years—Thrawn's TIE Defender, Gideon's Dark Trooper project. His own (fruitless) campaigning to retain midrange capital ships.
You were warned.
Now it was too late.
Unless…
His true feelings now firmly disguised by a mask of expressionlessness, Tagge folded his fingers in front of his face. "I serve at His Majesty's pleasure."
The Vizier's were equally masked.
"Do not fail him."
By midnight, he had reboarded his shuttle. It ascended into the atmosphere, then into vacuum. Tepasi behind them, Tagge regarded the constellations of the cosmos. Every point of light was a star. Every star had planets. Most of them had life. At the center of it all, human life had emerged. Evolved. From stone, to steam, to nuclear fusion. To the discovery of hyperspace.
For over ten-thousand generations, human life had proliferated, spreading to the four corners of the galaxy. It had taken a thousand generations of progress to unite them all.
Tagge vowed: Willingly, or not, they will remain so. Forever.
For a minute, Tagge remained in orbit, his shuttle's navicomputer calculating the jump to hyperspace, before coaxium injectors pressurized fuel lines and flooded the reactor with fiery red hypermatter—one second later, it had generated the power of a million suns.
Every point of light became a line.
Then, instantly, he was light-centuries away.