Nevarro, 9 ABY
A cold, dry wind scoured the arid landscape, whipping at Cal Kestis's cloak as he scanned the flats with a pair of binoculars, searching for signs of life. The scan yielded little activity outside of the scamperings of small creatures in the dunes, and Cal stowed his binoculars in his cloak. He raised his wrist device to his face and shouted over the wind, "BD-1, you there?"
The droid beeped an arpeggiated acknowledgment, and Cal requested, "Buddy, can you run a scan of the outskirts of town – set for lifeforms, but also ships of any kind."
The droid beeped again in acknowledgment, and Cal waited, attuning his senses to the Force. The disturbance was still out there, moving in the darkness, but subtle and elusive. Cal suspected that the individual was attempting to mask their presence, which might have eluded must Jedi and any Padawans. Cal smiled as he became more attuned to the subtle fluctuations. Moments later, BD-1 snapped him out of his attunement, and a set of coordinates flashed on his wrist device.
The droid beeped an affirmative, and Cal set off into the flats, wrapping his cloak around him to buffet against the wind.
Commodore Brandt marched down the corridor from the lift and turned down the hallway leading to the Grand Admiral's chambers. His brisk pace brought him before the pair of death troopers who saluted crisply before stepping aside to allow entrance to the chambers for Brandt's scheduled appointment. Brandt crossed the spacious chamber toward the Grand Admiral's silhouette standing in the darkness and backlit by holograms of several examples of delicate, elaborate artwork.
Brandt paused behind the Grand Admiral, waiting silently for the Grand Admiral to address him. In the silence, the artwork tugged at Brandt's focus, and as he regarded the art, he became aware of the subtle differences delineating the two separate groups of art. Both groups of art were elaborate, delicate, and complex, yet the group on the left appeared more refined and elegant, whereas the group on the right appeared more rigid and certain.
"Your thoughts, Commodore?" Grand Admiral Thrawn's quiet voice interjected into the silence.
"On the artwork, Sir?" Commodore asked, uncertain of his qualifications to comment on art.
"Please," the Grand Admiral encouraged.
Commodore Brandt hesitated as the Grand Admiral waited. "Um. . .The group on the left seems more delicate and elegant. The group on the right seems more certain, almost as if it is trying to remove any doubt."
"Astute observations," Grand Admiral Thrawn said, and Brandt could see the muscles around the Grand Admiral's cheeks tense as he smiled. "Perhaps you missed your calling as an art collector."
"Sir?" Commodore Brandt said, unsettled by the compliment.
Grand Admiral Thrawn turned away from the art, explaining, "The group on the left comes from Chandrila. You can see Chandrila's famous idealism reflected in the collection's elegance and refinement. Yet, just like Chandrila's history, the delicacy belies an anxiety that reflects the planet's brutal history. It is as if the Chandrilans seeks to mask their ruthless tendencies by persuading themselves that they can rise to their ideals. Yet, the artwork suggests doubt, uncertainty – the Chandrilans have never quite been able to attain the heights they set for themselves."
"And the group on the right?" Brandt asked.
"That collection originates from the planet Eriadu," Thrawn explained.
Brandt reconsidered the artwork on the right while also thinking of Senator Brasaar, an occasionally blustering, but often forceful political personality. "Are you contemplating the ongoing election, Sir?"
"Indeed," Thrawn affirmed. "In contrast to the Chandrilans, the Eriaduans harbor fewer illusions about their brutality, yet they also display more rigidity in the artwork, and therefore their culture, beliefs, and social norms. They are a forceful people, but short-sighted."
"Does this give you a sense of the outcome of the elections, Sir?" Commodore Brandt asked.
Thrawn frowned and tilted his head slightly to the side as he continued to regard the Eriaduan collection "Art is not a fortune-telling device. Think of it more as the unconscious declarations made by and about a society's soul."
"I see," Brandt said despite feeling less clarity.
"Anyhow," Thrawn said as the artwork vanished, replaced by a three-dimensional display of the galaxy. "Discussions of art are not your purpose, I sense," Thrawn observed.
As Thrawn turned toward the display, Brandt recognized his cue to report. "Sir, it appears that remnant Imperial forces have fragmented into smaller sects, most of which are little more than local warlords and organized crime cells accounting for less than 4% of the Empire's former might," Brandt reported. As Brandt spoke, several isolated red patches appeared on the outer reaches of the galaxy.
"And your estimation of Republic forces?" Thrawn asked.
"Republic forces peaked in the year following the Empire's surrender, at which point the Chancellor ordered a drawdown that has reduced their forces by 45% over the past four years," Brandt indicated.
"And do we have any estimate of the suspected forces commanded by our ex-Imperial friend who was recently sighted on Nevarro?" Grand Admiral Thrawn asked.
"Aside from the intelligence we intercepted, no, Sir," Brandt affirmed.
"Curious," Thrawn whispered. "Perhaps it was time we found out."
Bootsteps echoed through the chamber, and Brandt turned to see a dozen death troopers striding forward. Thrawn entered a command on a panel on his desk, and a droid floated from a corner in the room. Brandt recognized that the droid had a holocam mounted to its frame, and it paused before a line taped across the ground, waiting for the command to record. The death troopers fanned out around the line, and Thrawn stepped to the line, turning toward the droid.
"Come, Commodore," Thrawn said. "It is now time to see exactly what remains of the Empire."
Brandt stepped uncertainly to the Grand Admiral's side, and noticing his superior's calm and confidence, Brandt straightened his shoulders, unwilling to show any weakness. The red light above the droid's holocams flashed five times, counting down to the recording, and when the countdown completed, the light turned green.
"Citizens, soldiers, and Commanders of the Galactic Empire. I, Grand Admiral Thrawn, have returned from the Unknown Regions. I have learned only recently of the death of our Emperor and the fall of the Empire. As many of us have become scattered, disorganized, and disconnected, I come to you now, seeking to unify. Our Emperor and our Empire may be gone, but in the face of the chaos and disorder over which the Galactic Republic presides, our mission and our values remain true. I request that you join me on the planet Honoghr in seven standard days, and there we shall consolidate our strength and work together to remove the weakness festering in the once-proud heart of the Galactic Order," Thrawn paused, allowing enough silence for the message to sink in. He resumed his speech, saying, "Respond as soon as possible to receive coordinates – Emperor's Prime protocol. Long live security and order."
The green light flashed back to red, and the droid drifted back to its dock. Thrawn turned back to his desk as the death troopers filed out of the chamber again, and Brandt stood, reflecting on the Grand Admiral's words. His confusion caught not just on what the Grand Admiral had said, but on what he had not said.
"Questions, Commodore Brandt?" Thrawn murmured patiently as he entered a series of commands into his screen.
"Yes, Sir," Brandt said, then fearing the ramifications of questioning his commander, he said tentatively, "Are we not seeking to re-establish the Empire, Sir?"
"Such an endeavor would require decades and trillions of credits – neither of which we possess," Thrawn explained. "We must make do with the resources that exist."
"Sir?" Brandt asked, confused.
"The Empire is dead," Thrawn declared, more forcefully. "And had it survived, it would have proved its merits for survival. The Rebellion showed us that the Empire was too large, too forceful, and too cruel in its dealings. The Empire created the Rebellion, and the more it sought to control, the weaker it became."
Brandt felt an uncomfortable shiver pass in hearing the Grand Admiral's harsh eulogy for the government Brandt had dedicated his life to. He suppressed the shiver, again wishing not to contradict his superior.
"Yes, Commodore," Thrawn said, a note of sympathy in his voice. "I recognize that this will be difficult to accept. Yet, the Empire's destruction, the Republic's apathy and indifference, and the chaos of the Outer Rim all hint at a path for us to follow toward the re-establishment of a galactic order strengthened by the lessons of the Empire's failure."
"What path is that?" Brandt asked.
"All in good time," Thrawn said, smiling cryptically. "For now, we watch. And we wait."
Mara Jade moved through the shadows cast by Nevarro's moon, passing through inky pools cast by a ridge of low dunes as she skirted the lava wastes toward her ship. The black box bounced against her hip as she moved, and she kept her senses attuned to the presence she had felt off and on throughout the journey from the downed TIE fighter back to her assault ship. She ascended a short slope to the top of the ridge, allowing the moonlight to catch her for a brief moment as she took her bearings. There, on the other side of the ridge and beyond to a spacious flat, sat her ship glowing silver in the moonlight less than a kilometer away. Mara slid down the slope back into the shadows, quieting her mind as she progressed in the hopes of throwing whatever Force-user who might be tracking her off the scent.
She traced the base of the ridge over undulating washes, picking her way between crags of volcanic rock and occasional steam vents. She ran a quick mental calculation to reckon the distance to her ship, and as she prepared to dash across the flats to the safety of her ship, a beeping sound drew her attention to the black box at her hip.
She glanced down, alarmed at the sound, which she was certain would carry across the flats. She reached down to the box, pressing buttons at random in an attempt to silence the device. The box continued to beep, and as she turned it over into the sand, she saw a message displayed across the black box's small screen. She found the correct button, and the beeping stopped. She read the message, a mounting cocktail of dread, surprise, and some elusive bastardization of hope surging in her.
MESSAGE CRITICAL; PROTOCOL: EMPEROR'S PRIME
The words "Emperor's Prime" raged through her consciousness as she read and re-read the brief message. Those words had not appeared on any screen in her possession in over five years, and she fought against the reflexive urge to drop what she was doing and respond immediately to the Emperor. The hope flared in her that the Emperor would appear should she call, but then she remembered a year of fruitless searching, leading to the agonizing, incontrovertible conclusion: he was gone.
Whoever called now would be an impostor, and Mara's anger flared before she remembered that she was not alone. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, Mara quelled her emotions, turning her focus back toward her assault ship across the flat. After another scan of the area, she concluded that she gained nothing by waiting, and she rose to her feet before breaking into a dead run to cover the 400 meters between her and the ship. A stitch tore in her side as she approached the ship, and she entered a command into her wrist device as she ran, and the ship's running lights came on. She paused at the boarding ramp, waiting impatiently for it to lower, when. . .
"Hey there," spoke a male voice, calm and collected.
Mara turned toward the shaded dorsal side the ship to watch a man with auburn, shoulder length hair tied back in a bun and a cloak draped over his shoulders emerge from the shadows.
Mara tensed into a crouch, prepared to either run or strike. The man raised both of his arms in an appeasing gesture, saying, "Easy, there. I just want to talk." He paused, adding, "I'm Cal. Who are you?"
"Get away from me if you don't want to die," Mara snarled through the electronic amplifier on her face mask.
"No problem," Cal soothed, keeping his distance from her and circling out into the moonlight. Mara chanced a glance behind her at the boarding ramp, and anger spiked as she saw that the boarding ramp had closed back up.
"Jedi," Mara growled.
Cal smiled and nodded congenially. "You're strong in the Force as well, I see," he observed.
"I won't say it again," Mara snarled. "Move, or die."
"I was just hoping to have a conversation," Cal said appeasingly, keeping his hands up as he circled. Mara began to circle him as well, crouching as she prowled around him. Cal smiled as he said, "I keep trying to place where I've felt your presence before."
Mara unclipped the lightsaber hanging from her belt, feeling its familiar, but unwelcome weight in her hand. She pressed the activator button, and a red line of blazing light erupted, casting a red shadow over the space between him. Cal kept his hands up, attempting not to provoke and attack.
"That's right," Cal said as the recognition hit him. "Tython!"
At the mention of the word 'Tython,' Mara lunged forward, seeking to plunge her weapon through Cal's chest. A blue flash erupted in the space between them, and Cal stepped aside, catching her red blade against his blue lightsaber. He braced against her forward charge, then pushed back, sending Mara stumbling backward in the sand.
"Please, I just want to talk," Cal said, holding his hand up in a gesture of peace.
Mara recovered her balance and circled Cal, sizing him up. Inwardly, she felt a haze of scorn and shame at how recklessly she had engaged, and a stray memory of a sparring droid calling a point against her reverberated from a distant recess of her mind.
Weak, a voice in her mind chastised.
Cal kept his defenses up, circling in conjunction. Mara ran the quick mental calculation on his center of gravity, and she lunged, keeping her profile low. Cal did not have as much strength from this angle, and he leapt back after parrying two blows that nearly buckled his knees, completing a graceful backward somersault and landing in the sand.
Mara did not give him time to continue talking, and she raced forward, slashing at his face. Cal deflected each of her blows, matching her speed, if not her intensity. His casual demeanor evaporated into fierce concentration, and he pressed a counterattack, pushing her back toward the fuselage of her shuttle. After blocking his final, powerful blow, she stumbled backward into the sand.
Cal stepped back, keeping his lightsaber raised, and he said, "I am sure you've had to fight to survive. I promise you that the Jedi won't hold that against you. Skywalker. . ."
At the mention of the name, Mara roared. The eruption of rage within her sent currents of power and hatred through her body, sparked by the hateful name. She channeled that rage through the Force, and jagged currents of red lightning arced from her fingertips, racing toward Cal. Cal's eyes went wide as he raised his weapon to block the blast. The force of the blast sent him reeling through the air, soaring back 20 meters. In the space Mara created, she raced back to the boarding ramp, which dropped much faster without the Jedi's interference. As Cal rose to his feet, she raced into the ship's hold and past to the cockpit. The ship purred, ready to launch after she had initiated the remote startup sequence. As she slid into the captain's chair, she nudged the ship off of the ground.
The Jedi stood below her, and she began to pivot the ship to fire on him. Her eye caught movement on the horizon, and she watched the running lights of another ship rising to meet her. Recognizing that the ship would reach her by the time she managed to gun down the Jedi, Mara threw the sublight drive open all the way, and her assault shuttle screamed off past the freighter rising from the lava sand dunes. She shot past the ship, which lumbered around to pursue her, moving far too slowly to keep pace.
Moments later, she reached the edge of the atmosphere, and she plugged in a short jump just to clear the planet. She pulled back the lever, and the ship shot forward for several seconds before immediately jumping back out of hyperspace. Her scope showed she was now several hundred thousand kilometers away, and as she scanned the relative safety of space around her, the voices began.
KILL THE SKYWALKERS!
The voice roared from a deep, bottomless well inside her. Adrenaline and terror surged in her body, and she felt as if the Emperor would appear behind her, prepared to torture her in punishment for her failures.
You have become weak. Unworthy.
Mara held her hands over her ears in a childish attempt to shut out the noise. The gesture brought on a wall of cackling laughter ripping through her nervous system, followed by the image of herself as a small child, terrified by the Emperor's approach in a dark room.
My girl. . .
The voice whispered, and she felt a cold, clammy sensation steal over her body. She gripped the armrests of her chair to keep from falling onto the floor, and she gazed into space, whispering to herself, "This isn't happening. This isn't happening."
Oh, but it is. I will never leave you. Atone for your failure. Complete your mission.
With each punctuation, she felt a phantom, electrical current surging through her bones and muscles, even though the only thing entwining her was the safety of her ship and the void of space. The pain surged and drifted through her body, peaking here, then shifting there as she writhed in agony, gripping the armrests to keep from passing out.
Without warning, the anguish stopped, and she panted for breath, seeking to stabilize herself. The laughter trailed off like thunder fading into the distance, and as the sound died out, she collapsed onto the floor, sinking into unconsciousness.
"What the hell was that all about?" an irritated Han Solo barked across the dusty streets of Nevarro as Cal jogged up the road, panting from the exertion.
"That," Cal said, pausing to take a few deep breaths, "Was a dark Jedi."
Han froze before he could get his next question out, leaving him slack-jawed in the dark as he attempted to process what Cal had said.
"I gotta talk to Skywalker immediately," Cal said. "You good here?"
"I didn't get very far with either of them. They both seem dead set on protecting their Mandalorian friend," Han grumbled.
"What are you gonna do next?" Cal said, wrapping his cloak closer around his body as a chill set in.
"I'm gonna try to find a way to get this in front of the Chancellor," Han said. He hesitated, then added, "And my wife."
Cal raised an eyebrow, but did not comment. He had been a part of Leia's training and knew her well as a Jedi, but he intuited that Han's adventure here was not fully sanctioned.
"Good luck with that, Solo," Cal said. He reached his hand out, and Han took his hand, shaking congenially. Cal smiled and said, "I got a feeling this one isn't over."
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Han grinned.
Cal looked up to the sky, a cryptic smile on his face, before he said, "I'll let you know. Good meeting you, Solo."
"Likewise, Cal," Han said. "I owe you one."
Cal winked, then turned to jog off to his ship. Han watched him vanish into the dark, and he turned his focus to the outskirts of town where the Falcon awaited, knowing that he could not put off facing Leia forever.
Mara's mind emerged from unconsciousness hours later, disoriented and fragmented. She pulled herself up to her knees as wakefulness reasserted itself, and in the darkness of the freighter's cockpit, she pulled herself back into the captain's chair. The black box lay on the co-pilot's seat, silent and dormant after its unexpected transmission. She tapped a button to activate the screen and saw the directive again; EMPEROR'S PRIME.
She took several deep breaths, steadying herself. She knew he was gone, even if he still felt as much a part of her as her own consciousness. Which meant only one thing. A quiet curiosity clashed against a gnawing dread as she opened a compartment below the ship's console. She reached in and removed a golden medallion embossed with the Imperial insignia. She placed the medallion into a circular depression above her holoprojector, and she watched as the black box activated, transmitting the message to her projector. Moments later, the projector whirled to life, displaying the figure of Grand Admiral Thrawn surrounded by death troopers and an Imperial officer. She listened, her curiosity transforming to anger, which then transmuted to dread.
So he had done it. The Emperor's favorite officer had returned to the galaxy after his disappearance. Mara recalled the rage that followed his disappearance at the Battle of Lothal, and from that point on, it was one defeat after another for the Imperial Navy. And if he had returned, he would go right back to the vicious little pets he revered so much – his bodyguards, minions, agents. The Emperor had scoffed at Thrawn's refusal to rely on traditional means, instead preferring his sentient predators.
She entered the coordinates into her ships drive, but as her hand hovered above the hyperdrive lever, she thought of Zhey'la. A wave of shame disconnected from the Emperor washed over her as she realized that she had been so preoccupied with the Jedi, with Skywalker, with Gideon, that she had not thought once of Zhey'la. Yet, it had only been two days. She had time. You can do this, she thought to herself, and the Emperor's distant laughter echoed in the recesses of her soul. She pulled back the hyperdrive lever as the ship shot forward, and she limped back to her bunk, falling into a fitful sleep that wandered a gauntlet of shadowy nightmares.