Under ordinary circumstances Chazwa was a pleasant enough world.
Heavily populated by galactic standards, with some three and a half billion inhabitants (mostly human), it had the good fortune of falling squarely in the middle of the Perlemian Trade Route, which meant easy access to goods and services of all kinds. Over the years it had eventually become a central shipping hub of its region, serving as a safe landing zone and respected port of call for most of the ships that serviced the Perlemian, not to mention many of the smaller vessels that wandered even further afield.
But that centrality made Chazwa a strategic target. Imperial rule on Chazwa had shattered after Endor—its dense population of smugglers, free traders, and prospectors meant it had greater than its fair share of anti-Imperial sentiment—and the New Republic had occupied the world with relative ease. It had even become a major New Republic stronghold, which had made it one of Grand Admiral Thrawn's first targets and first reconquests.
Now the New Republic wanted it back and Admiral Natasi Daala, late of the Imperial Star Destroyer Gorgon, was running out of ideas for how to prevent them from taking it.
"Admiral," Commander Kratas greeted her as the ground shook.
Kratas was the former commanding officer of her late, lamented flagship. He was solidly built, with dark coloring and a keen tactical mind. Aggressive and ambitious, but bone-loyal like so many of her officers, he'd dragged her off the bridge rather than letting her go down with her ship. He had realized that attempting to ram a Super Star Destroyer, with its massive tractor beams able to deflect large incoming objects, was unlikely to be successful with or without her hand on the helm. Thanks to him, she had lived to fight another day.
She couldn't even tell Kratas was Fleet anymore by looking at him. Like many of Gorgon's survivors whose escape pods had set them down on Chazwa, he'd adopted Stormtrooper armor and a blaster rifle and had become—through necessity—one of Daala's ground commanders, dusting off long-forgotten Academy lessons as men died around them. "I'm not sure how much longer we're going to be able to hold the remaining shield generators, sir. The enemy Vicstar deployed another squadron of bombers."
The pounding grew more distant and Daala moved from the center of her makeshift command room, an old apartment building located in Chazwa's capital city, Iritsa. The building was a hostel for down-on-their-luck spacers, rough and down-at-heel; its only redeeming characteristic was it hadn't been bombed into rubble like their previous two command centers. She strode over to a nearby window and hunkered down behind a makeshift barricade, risking a quick peek upward to survey the city.
Streets had been blasted to ruin, buildings collapsed or tottering. The entire city smelt like smoke and vaporized permacrete.
The Rebels had made their first landing attempt a month before, only to find that the Imperial garrison was not yet willing to surrender. Ground-based turbolasers had shredded Rebel transports and Daala herself had led the Stormtrooper squad that surrounded and eliminated the one Rebel commando team that successfully made landfall.
The second landing attempt had been more cautious. Instead of trying to come down in the city proper, the Rebels had landed miles outside the city then made the slow march to the coast where Iritsa was located. But Daala had seen that landing attempt coming too, and the dense minefield that she'd laid along the main roads had stalled the enemy until her men could rip their guts out.
It was after the failure of the second landing that Iritsa had first been bombed. The Rebel commander—Daala could look up and see the Victory-class Star Destroyer hanging in space above them, with its damnable Rebel crests marring the perfect Imperial white—had decided that bombardment was the only solution. The Rebels were clearly trying to be careful and minimize civilian casualties, but Daala had dispersed her forces through the entire city, assembling anti-fighter batteries in camouflaged locations. Each time one of her mobile batteries fired the Vicstar in orbit pinpointed it and hit it with a few turbolaser blasts, but usually not before the battery's crew dragged it to safety to repeat the exercise a few hours later.
It had only taken a few days to blast the city to rubble. Not for nothing, Natasi Daala appreciated the Rebel squeamishness for brutal action. An Imperial battlegroup could have melted the entire area in hours, civilians and all.
Now, with most of her anti-fighter guns gone, the Rebels had grown bolder. White contrails from B-wings and X-wings had presaged passes over the city for the last day and a half, searching for Imperial bunkers. "It'll only be another half a day, maybe less, before they try another landing," she decided, thinking aloud. "Assuming they have ground forces on hand for it."
"Any other demands for our surrender, sir?"
She shook her head, glancing at the dust-covered communications unit. It was still lit, letting her know it still worked, but it hadn't made any noise in a few days. "I think they've decided it's a waste of air to ask."
"Yes, sir," Kratas said, offering her a surprisingly cheerful smile, one she hadn't seen since Dorin. "To the last, then?"
She checked her blaster rifle. "Until I am dead or rendered unfit to serve," she reminded him.
"Yes, sir," Kratas repeated.
She stared up into the sky at the enemy Star Destroyer. "Tell Lieutenant Zapalo that when the next landing is attempted…" her voice trailed off, and she gave Kratas a meaningful look.
"I'll tell him," Kratas promised. "Anything else, sir?"
"Find me another E-web."
"I'll get right on that, sir."
It was dark when the Rebels attempted their third landing.
The comm unit in the corner blinked to life, then crackled with a single short burst of static. Jamming made getting actual words difficult, but the jolts of static were hard to miss. Daala grabbed her macrobinoculars and stared up at the starry sky. The enemy Star Destroyer was still there, and she tracked under his open hangar and saw the Sentinel-class landing craft that was now descending towards the city.
It was attempting to make the landing under cover of darkness, hoping to set down and disgorge its troops before Daala was ready for it. It would have worked, too, if Daala had not had her last card to play.
The Rebel Sentinel descended through the thin cloud cover and had made it down to the altitude reached of the average Coruscanti spacescraper when the bolts of green shot across the sky. The first two missed, but the third and fourth both struck the Sentinel directly from the side. Daala swung her macrobinoulars along the trajectory the fire was coming from and saw the Gamma-class assault shuttle Edict, the last of Gorgon's surviving small craft. Even as she watched, trails of concussion missiles rocketed out from Edict, multiplying, and no fewer than six warheads locked on to the Sentinel which carried, if Daala had to guess, about seventy-five Rebel troops.
The Sentinel dodged the first missile and its blaster cannons knocked down two more. The fourth slammed into the shuttle's right wing from behind, ripping through the back of the shuttle, and then the sixth missile punched through the Sentinel's fuselage and it exploded, illuminating the sky in brilliant red.
But the Sentinel was not alone. Two X-wings were already arrowing in on Edict, proton torpedoes leaping out from their launch tubes. Edict fired back, but lacked the speed or maneuverability of an X-wing and just a few seconds after the Sentinel died a second explosion erupted in the sky.
Daala tracked her macrobinoculars back over the enemy Star Destroyer, and saw four additional Sentinels launching from its hangar.
"That's it, then," she said. She was all out of tricks, all out of tools. The only thing that was left was to take her remaining stormtroopers—and what was left of Gorgon's crew—and fight until it was over.
She checked her blaster rifle's power back, and then slung additional power packs and gas cartridges over her uniform. She lacked any armor of her own. The Empire didn't make stormtrooper armor for women, but that was no matter. It wouldn't be fair for her to have that kind of protection when so few of her men did.
Daala tracked her macrobinoculars back up, wanting to see where the Sentinels would be landing. She frowned in surprise as she found one, because its trajectory was no longer towards the ground. All four of the Sentinels were now turning back towards the sky, racing towards the enemy Star Destroyer with impressive haste.
Her comm unit crackled. " . . . Stormhawk . . . erial forces, report . . . prepare for immediate evacuation . . . "
Daala adjusted the unit. She took another glance to make sure that the Rebels really were withdrawing, and saw the bright green bursts of turbolaser batteries. She swung the binoculars around, adjusted their magnification, and was rewarded with the glorious sight of an Imperial I-class Star Destroyer coming above Chazwa's horizon, out of the just rising sun.
"Stormhawk, this is Admiral Daala, commanding officer of the Imperial forces on Chazwa. Repeat your last message," she ordered, adjusting the unit further.
Kratas entered the room, pointing in the direction of Stormhawk; she waved him off.
"Stormhawk, this is Admiral Daala. Repeat your last message," she repeated.
" . . . al Daala, this is . . . of Stormhawk. We've discouraged the enemy from attempting their landing, but there are two Mon Calamari Star Cruisers on their way . . . sending our landers down to pick up you and as many survivors as you can gather together on short notice. Please send us landing locations."
She turned to Kratas. "Order each of the teams to set up landing flares immediately," she ordered. "Fifteen sites if possible, assuming they have that many landers. We want to be gone as soon as we can."
"It will be done, sir," Kratas acknowledged, and was gone again.
She reactivated her com. "Stormhawk, this is Daala. We're setting out landing flares to mark safe landing zones. How long before the Star Cruisers arrive?"
"Estimate thirty minutes, Admiral." The voice on the other end of the line had a nice, crisp Coruscanti accent that felt like a cool breeze of reassurance.
We are not alone. The Empire has come for us.
"We'll be ready in ten," she replied. She took one look around the apartment that had become her command center, but there was nothing here she wanted to keep other than maybe her rifle. She grabbed it and the com unit, then started the trek down to the ground floor.
The sun was just coming up when the Delta-class stormtrooper transport that Stormhawk had sent to get her lifted off the surface of Chazwa. The transport's pilots were obedient and respectful, but they all watched her with that same kind of hidden curiosity that so much of the Starfleet possessed. She was an Admiral, an authority figure, but she was also Natasi Daala, and there was no one in the fleet who did not know that Natasi Daala had once been Grand Moff Tarkin's lover.
Her lips firmed together, but she'd long since learned not to let the opinions of fools linger in her mind.
They made the trip from Chazwa's surface to Stormhawk's hangar in close to record time. Even as she exited the stormtrooper transport she saw the survivor's of Gorgon's crew, gathering together, laughing and smiling at the unexpected reprieve, and then saw them straighten to attention as they noticed her.
These men had been her crew for a long time. Gorgon and the rest of her squadron had been dispatched to the Outer Rim with unceremonious haste after Tarkin's death at Yavin. Daala had been a problem for the fleet, and they had dealt with that problem by sending her away. Daala had known not to expect anything else, not after everything that had happened, but the Starfleet had not exiled her alone. Gorgon's crew, and men like Kratas, had followed her into exile, and together they had spent years hunting pirates and the occasional Rebel that stumbled out into the Outer Rim. When they'd finally, finally, been called back, her squadron had been utterly mauled in a matter of weeks, with three of her four Star Destroyers destroyed at Dorin and Chazwa.
Unlike the rest of the fleet, they respected her and she owed them nothing less.
"Admiral Daala, welcome aboard Stormhawk."
She turned tiredly towards the voice. A small ceremonial boarding party approached, led by a lanky, amber-complexioned man in a Captain's uniform. "Thank you for your timely intervention, Captain…" she greeted him, tiredly obeying the dance of rank and etiquette to request his name,
"Captain Davit Markanian, Admiral." A small smile appeared beneath the Captain's hawk nose. He offered her a calloused hand, and she could tell he was trying not to stare.
She doubted she looked anything at all like the stories said. Daala had spent the last weeks in the dirt and muck. Her clothes were torn and tattered and she had suffered multiple blaster grazes during the Rebellion's first landing attempt. She'd cut her copper-colored hair short enough to match stormtrooper regulation—it stood out less that way—and she was sure she didn't look anything like the wanton seductress the more salacious stories about her said she was.
"What's our status, Captain?" she asked.
He straightened, responding immediately to the implied authority in her tone. "We've departed the Chazwa system ahead of the arriving Rebel forces, Admiral. We're on our way into securely held Imperial space."
She frowned. "Securely held Imperial space?"
Markarian looked around the hangar, then took a step closer, lowering his voice. "Much has happened since Chazwa, Admiral. Please accompany me and I'll brief you."
She stared at the map of Imperial space. "Carida has fallen?" she asked, hearing the astonished dismay in her voice. "How could this have happened?"
"Carida has indeed fallen, sir, " Markarian said with a sigh. Daala watched as he manipulated the controls of the holotable that was in the center of his office, the projected map of the galaxy whirling and scintillating as he magnified the space around Carida. "And Reaper's gone. But beyond that? The truth is I just don't know. Stormhawk was at Orinda and never made it to Carida." He pressed his lips together. "The Council of Moffs has announced that Admirals Deshorn and Pellaeon betrayed us to the Rebellion. They claim that Admiral Pellaeon opened fire on the Academy."
"What?!" Daala stared in disbelief. She was about to rebut the statement, to say it couldn't possibly be accurate; she knew Gilad Pellaeon and had served, if briefly, as his second-in-command! He might not be the finest strategist the fleet had ever had, but he was stalwart and loyal if ever an Imperial officer was!
Markarian's expression matched how she felt. "I know. Stormhawk was part of Thrawn's personal squadron during the campaign. I served with Pellaeon. It sounds unbelievable, but…" he shook his head. "I don't know, Admiral. I don't know what is going on."
It wasn't a puzzle that she was going to be able to solve right away. "What are your orders?"
"Honestly?" Markarian folded his arms across his chest. "We don't have any right now. With Deshorn and Pellaeon both gone and Reaper destroyed, the command hierarchy is in chaos. The last word we got from Entralla was that Captain Brandei had been promoted to Admiral and put in command of the fleet, but Judicator went missing before that order even came in."
"So you decided to bring Stormhawk to get my people out on your own initiative," Daala said.
Markarian nodded. "Yes, sir."
She nodded. Many Star Destroyer captains in the Starfleet wouldn't go out of their way even for their own crew. She would remember what he had done. "My men and I appreciate that initiative. Where are we going?" she asked.
"Entralla, sir. It seems only logical to rally the fleet there and we can assess the situation when we arrive." He deactivated the holo-table, and the map of the galaxy faded. "I'm assigning your crew to quarters and, if you don't object, I'll also be giving them duty shifts. Stormhawk is short of crew and we could use all the skilled crewers we can get."
"Good."
He hesitated. "Will you be taking direct command of Stormhawk, sir?"
"No, not at this time, Captain. Stormhawk is your ship. Once we arrive at Entralla and figure out what in the nine hells is going on, I'm sure to be given something."
Markarian tried to hide his relief, but Daala could see it anyway. She didn't begrudge him that—she wouldn't want some Admiral coming onto her ship and taking it away from her, either. "Yes, sir," he said. "If you don't object, I've assigned you the Admiral's suite. It hasn't ever been occupied, so you can make it home until we reach Entralla."
Home. It was an odd word, and an odder thought. The Admiral's suite aboard Gorgon had been home, of a sort. The COMPNOR orphanage on Botajef had been home. So had her dorm at the Academy on Carida, but never her quarters on Executrix when she'd served on Tarkin's staff. "It will do," she said. She took a deep breath, feeling a sudden surge of fatigue. How long had it been since she slept? "If you'll excuse me, Captain, I believe I'll make use of those quarters now."
Every Star Destroyer was the same, and the Admiral's quarters were always close to the Captain's quarters, so barely five minutes later, as soon as Commander Kratas assured her her crew was taken care of she collapsed on the bed, still in her tattered uniform, and slept.
Their arrival at Entralla brought remarkably few answers. Much of the fleet was still scattered around Imperial space—not counting the substantial fleets loyal to the warlords in the Deep Core—and it became clear almost immediately that no one knew more than Captain Markarian had. Dozens of Star Destroyers were all receiving repairs—some more serious than others—and Stormhawk settled neatly into a docking berth next to her sister ship Nemesis, a fellow veteran of Thrawn's personal squadron.
Daala mostly stayed out of Captain Markarian's way. Stormhawk's Admiral's quarters were plain, which suited her just fine, and had a direct HoloNet link to the Entralla node, which permitted Daala access to the Imperial net. She had already spent hours going over everything the HoloNet had available—all of which was remarkably uninformative, barely more than Markarian had already told her—when it occurred to her that her channel selection was limited.
"Access HoloNet, Coruscant Public Broadcasting Service," she ordered.
CORUSCANT PUBLIC BROADCASTING SERVICE UNAVAILABLE.
She frowned. Highlighting the service announcement, she read deeper.
CORUSCANT PUBLIC BROADCASTING SERVICE IS A NON-IMPERIAL OUTLET. ALL INFORMATION GENERATED FROM THIS SOURCE IS DEEMED UNRELIABLE BY ISB CENSORS.
Clamped down on information, have they? Daala mused silently. She went through a dozen other news sources—some based on Coruscant, others based on planets like Brentaal. All of them were blocked. As best she could tell, even sources on Rebel-held but Imperial-sympathetic worlds, like Kuat, were blocked.
What was going on?
There was a chime. "Commander Kratas to see Admiral Daala."
She deactivated the holotable—it wasn't like it was providing any actionable information anyway—and swiveled her chair towards the entrance to her office as she sent the command to open the door.
Commander Kratas stepped in, looking significantly better groomed than he had when last she'd seen him. She supposed she probably looked better herself—a fresh uniform did wonders. "Admiral," he said, clearly happy to see her.
"Commander," she replied warmly. She had few friends, but Kratas had stuck by her despite years in the Starfleet's Outer Rim purgatory. By all rights he ought to be a Captain—he had long since done the job of one—but like most members of the fleet who had stuck by her, his career had stalled. "I hope the crew is settling into their duties aboard Stormhawk?"
"Indeed so, Admiral," he confirmed. "But that's not why I'm here." He stood at attention in front of her desk. "Ma'am, you have received a request for your presence from Grand Inquisitor Halmere and the Council of Moffs. They're waiting for you on Entralla."
Stunned disbelief rendered her mute for a long moment, then she stood, straightening her uniform. "Is there a shuttle waiting for me?"
"Captain Markarian is preparing one as we speak, ma'am." He gestured at the door. "The tower hangar will be ready when you arrive."
The hangar was busy. Stormhawk's most seriously wounded were being moved into shuttles, to be transported to the base for treatment and recovery. She saw a cluster of wounded survivors from Gorgon among them, and briefly stopped to wish them her best. Then she boarded the provided shuttle.
The headquarters on Entralla was nicknamed 'the Bastion'. The exterior was heavily fortified against any potential Rebel snubfighter attack, so the shuttle descended through a gauntlet of light turbolaser and laser emplacements that Daala thought sacrificed a great deal of function in in favor of looking impressive: a handful of proton torpedo strikes would take out multiple weapons each, which was a recipe for disaster.
If she were put in command of the planet's defenses, she would demand an extensive refit of the entire apparatus.
But then, if the Rebellion was attacking Entralla, the Empire had much bigger problems. And she very much hoped that she wasn't about to be given that job.
The reinforced hangar doors opened and the shuttle descended through them. Below was a deep, chasm-like hole that descended deeper and deeper into the ground, under layers of armor and rock. After long minutes, the Lambda-class shuttle settled into a large, brightly-lit hangar, filled with shuttles and freighters, pilots and stormtroopers and engineers going about their duties.
To her surprise, there was an honor guard standing and waiting for them. She straightened her uniform, gave Kratas a severe nod, then strode down the landing ramp. The line of stormtroopers and officers saluted; in front of them were three men, none of them in a formal military uniform. Two of them wore Moffs' uniforms. The last man bore no rank insignia but he was clearly the man in charge. Cloaked in a flowing, hooded black robe, with a white cuirass that hung, apron-like, to provide additional protection; he was flanked by two enormous bodyguards. Both of the guards were at least seven feet tall in their armor, wearing helmets with glowing red eyes.
She realized as she got closer that they weren't men at all, but droids.
She strode until she was standing before the trio of superior offers, then twisted on her heels with parade precision and saluted. "Admiral Daala reporting as ordered!"
"At ease, Admiral Daala," the robed man said. His voice was deep and calm, and as he spoke all the men behind him relaxed to parade rest. Yellowish-white cloth was wrapped around his head, covering his hair and mouth; whether it was functional or decorative, Daala didn't know, but it did serve to largely hide his expression. All of him she could see were his dark eyes and high cheekbones.
"Admiral Daala," said the Moff beside him. He was much older, practically geriatric, but with amateurishly-dyed hair that suggested he did not wear his age gracefully. "I am Moff Vilim Disra, and this is Emperor-Regent Halmere."
Her eyes widened in stunned surprise and she instantly dropped to one knee. Beside her Kratas did the same, with a moment of additional hesitation. "Emperor-Regent. Forgive me, I did not know—"
"You may rise, Admiral," Halmere told her, his voice calm and steady. "My new position has not yet been fully announced and you could not have known."
"I am honored that you summoned me," Daala said as she stood, straightening her uniform. "How may I serve?"
"Tell me, Admiral. Had Captain Markarian not come to your rescue at Chazwa, what would the outcome of that battle been?" Halmere's question had that same, almost preternatural calm, and there was a hint of power and presence in it. The line of officers and stormtroopers stood shock-still behind him; the two Moffs moved between her and Halmere, watching them both.
"My men and I would have fought for another few days," Daala explained. "We could no longer prevent Rebel landings in the city, and the battle would have been street to street and house to house. We would have fought until the end, but my men were largely survivors of a Star Destroyer crew, and not trained for urban combat." She watched Halmere levelly, not allowing herself to break the joined gaze. "Within two weeks we would all have been dead."
"You would have fought until the bitter end?"
"We would."
"You would have, Admiral Daala?"
She straightened. "Yes, Emperor-Regent. I would have fought until I was dead or unfit to serve."
"You won the battle of Dorin," Halmere continued in that same calm tone. "And you saved Admiral Pellaeon from his own incompetence at the Battle of Chazwa, at the willing cost of your flagship."
I must look into what exactly had happened with Pellaeon the first moment I have time, she promised herself. "I swore an oath to the Empire," Daala said aloud, "to serve with all my heart."
"Yes," Halmere agreed. "And for that you shall be rewarded. Admiral Daala, effective immediately, you are in command of the Imperial Second Fleet. Your orders are to protect the Empire's holdings in the Core and crush all Rebellions against our legitimate rule. You will be given every resource available to accomplish that mission. Do you accept this commission and these orders?"
Daala stared at him in stunned surprise. What had he said? Discipline was the only thing that permitted her to render the proper response. "Yes sir, I do."
Halmere gestured at the second man in a Moff's uniform. "This is Loyalty Officer Sarreti. All Imperial officers in command of a mobile unit have been assigned a Loyalty Officer by the Imperial Security Bureau, to ensure better collaboration between the Starfleet and ISB."
A watchdog, Daala thought distastefully. She eyed the man. He was younger than either Halmere or Disra, much younger than Daala herself. Sarreti stepped forward, offering her his hand. "It is my distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance, Admiral," he said, speaking in the clipped, perfectly precise diction of a native Coruscanti.
"Of course," she said, more to Halmere than to Sarreti as she regarded the Emperor Regent, "Thank you for looking after my wounded, sir."
"Rest assured, Admiral," Halmere said, parting his hands in a beneficent gesture that echoed Palpatine's speeches, "the Empire takes care of its own."
"Thank you sir," Daala said, and meant it.
"Now, come with me," Halmere ordered. He turned—his two enormous combat droids keeping to his flanks—and Daala fell into step with him, Sarreti and Disra trailing behind. "The Inquisitorius has been working on finding a solution to the fleet's problems with manpower and materiel," Halmere said as they walked—the officers and stormtroopers did not accompany them—through the hangar. Disra pressed a button on his wristcomm, and in front of them one of the hangar's bulkheads parted, allowed them passage, and then closed behind them.
"A difficult task," Daala commented, trying to determine what the proper protocol was for addressing an Emperor-Regent. And if Halmere was Regent, did that mean there was an Emperor?
"For those of mundane talents, perhaps," Halmere said coyly. His words were slightly muffled by the cloth wrapped around his head. They entered into a second hangar, just as large as the first, but this one is entirely empty of people. Maintenance droids rolled through the expansive space, tending to row after row of cruelly-angled TIE fighters.
Daala had never seen this design before. Like TIE interceptors they had a cutout in their solar panels, but unlike the TIE interceptor their panels were entirely rectangular; the cutout gave them a blocky, narrow U-shape. There were hundreds of them in this space alone.
"The Starfleet has long complained about not having a proper counter for the Rebellion's accursed snubfighters," Halmere continued. "And so I have given it one. Admiral Daala, let me introduce you to the next generation of Imperial starfighter."
"Impressive," she said, and it was. TIEs were rarer and rarer as Imperial manufacturing dwindled and shipyards were captured one after the next. "Do they also have pilots?"
Halmere laughed, a dry, unamused sound. "Tell me," he asked. "Do they need pilots?"
Daala frowned in confusion, then jerked in surprise as all of the TIEs in the hangar suddenly beeped in unison. As one, they sang an electronic chorus of the Imperial anthem, an eerie, artificial version, without any of the verve of a human chorus.
"The TIE Droid," Halmere explained with grim satisfaction.
She recovered from her surprise. "How many will I have?"
"The Inquisitorius will make delivery of the first one thousand, seven-hundred and twenty-eight TIE Droids by the end of the year. The pace of construction should only accelerate from there," Halmere answered, and now she could hear the relish in his voice even as the staggering size of the number registered. "They may take some time to fully reach the quality of veteran pilots, but they do learn and adapt. Rest assured, Admiral, I will give you however many you need."
Twelve wings of TIEs. Enough to give twenty-four Imperial-class Star Destroyers full fighter complements. Even if they did not perform as well as human pilots, the sheer numbers would utterly change the calculus.
She looked again at the two massive human-like droids that flanked Halmere, and wondered if there would be a similar change in fortunes on the ground.
"So, Admiral Daala, do you think you can defeat the rebellions, once and for all?"
Daala smiled slowly. "Oh yes, Emperor-Regent. Yes I do."
She chose Stormhawk as her flagship. Captain Markarian deserved no less than to host the fleet's new commanding officer, and she needed to focus fully on strategy while someone else handled commanding her flagship. She lamented that Kratas was without a ship, but her long-time XO had taken the news well. It helped that he was enthusiastic rather than put out when she told him that he would be staying as her chief of staff until she found him a command.
Her second task was putting out feelers to become fully briefed on the actual state of the Empire.
Whatever had happened at Carida, it was now clear that Admiral Pellaeon and a hefty chunk of the former garrison fleet were in open rebellion. Moff Ferrouz's Candoras sector was definitely in revolt with them—scuttlebutt was that Ferrouz had been Grand Moff Kaine's chosen successor, not Halmere—but Candoras did not have the kind of military infrastructure to be a serious threat. She didn't want to fight Pellaeon—he'd been one of the only officers in the entire Starfleet who hadn't treated her with overt disrespect—but at least for the moment she didn't see that she had much choice.
Luckily, it seemed she wouldn't have to right away. Halmere was still looking for a commander of the forces he would use to defeat Ferrouz and Pellaeon. Her concern was the New Republic. General Antilles' Fifth Fleet was already moving towards Corellia, preparing for an extended campaign, and she would have to get her forces into position to fight them off as quickly as she could.
Her most pressing concern was not Antilles, however. It was her new subordinates. The position she had been given meant nothing if it was not respected by the fleet… and respect was not something she was accustomed to receiving from the fleet.
But as Fleet Admiral, well, she had new options for redress.
Stormhawk's stewards waited on her with attentive patience, and the fitting for her new uniform had been done in no time at all. An entire valise of new Admiral's uniforms arrived with remarkable speed—clearly, they had been prepared in haste, but the cut was crisp and it did not lack for quality—and she fastened the seals of the starched fabric with no small amount of pride.
Once, when she'd had Tarkin's patronage—whatever it had cost her—being Fleet Admiral had been an inevitability. After Tarkin's death it had seemed a pointless fantasy, one she did not even allow herself to daydream about. Now, unexpectedly, she had been cast into the role she had long dreamed of.
She straightened her tunic and then strode from her quarters. Officers and troopers snapped to attention as the battered, broken-in boots she insisted on keeping clicked through Stormhawk's corridors. It was a short walk from the Admiral's quarters to the briefing room, and a pair of stormtroopers stood outside, holding their E-11s at attention.
There was the click of boots behind her, and she turned to see Loyalty Officer Sarreti arriving. "Ah, Admiral," he greeted her. "I hope you do not mind if I join you for the conference?"
As if she had any choice. She lifted an eyebrow at him. "Tell me, Loyalty Officer Sarreti… where does your position stand in the Imperial hierarchy?"
The young man had an impressive combination of a smile and a Sabacc face. "Above an Admiral but below a Moff."
"But you are outside of the Starfleet's chain of command?" she pressed.
He held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "I am not here to interfere with your military command, Admiral. I am merely COMPNOR's representative on your staff." He smiled winsomely. "I'm here to make your life as easy as I can, I promise."
Daala gave a noncommittal "Hmm," then turned towards the troopers outside the conference room. "Have the Captains arrived?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," the senior trooper announced. "Captain Markarian joined them just a minute ago." He stepped to the side and the door behind him opened with a hiss. She entered, and the troopers entered behind her then stopped just inside the briefing room to flank either side of the door. Sarreti followed behind, nearly silent.
Fifteen Captains—fourteen with their own ships, and Kratas—lined the long rectangular table. They stood as she entered. Some wore perfectly blank expressions, others curious… some outright disdainful. She kept her own expression carefully professional, though her jaw set stiffly. "Be seated," she ordered.
They sat. Once again, the motion was revealing. Some sat quickly, others more casually. Captain Nalgol of Tyrannic sat last and folded his arms across his chest like a petulant child, outright glowering at her.
She stayed standing, folding her hands behind her back. "By the order of the Emperor-Regent, I now command this Fleet. My orders are to protect Corellia and the Empire's holdings in the Core. To that end, once the ships here at Entralla have been fully re-equipped, we will be—"
"Re-equipped with what?" interrupted Nalgol bitterly. "My escort and TIE squadrons were destroyed by the Rebels at Castell. The system is now in their hands, and that traitor Pellaeon is practically collaborating with them to keep us from taking it back!"
Daala kept her mouth closed. The silence lingered as she gazed at Nalgol with calm, emotionless eyes, willing the man to feel the molten fury simmering beneath that gaze. The Captains stirred as she did not speak, glancing at one another, then at Nalgol.
"Admiral?" Nalgol prompted, finally looking uncomfortable.
"Oh, I was listening," Daala told him calmly. "I was just waiting until you were finished. You are finished, aren't you, Captain?"
Nalgol stiffened, leaning forward, both his hands on the polished table. He rose half out of his chair as he loomed forward, but though he was tall enough, she loomed taller. "I did not join the Starfleet to be toyed with by the likes of you." He lifted his hands, gesturing out at Sarreti, as if imploring the ISB operative for reprieve. "Is this what we have come to? To be treated like Rodians by Tarkin's whore!? How can—"
There was a whisper of metal on leather and a crimson bolt from Daala's blaster took him in the heart. He pitched backwards mid-sentence and toppled into his chair, the once-perfect uniform over his chest smoldering around a decidedly imperfect crater. Nalgol's corpse regarded her, his jaw still set in fury; his stunned, wide eyes vouchsafing a fatal shock.
Daala lowered her pistol to her side when the light left his eyes. "I do not care what you say about me behind my back," she said, the words deceptively calm, hiding her fury boiling beneath the surface. "But I will not tolerate insubordination."
Her captains stared at her, stunned into silence.
She let the silence linger until Sarreti cleared his throat. "It seems Tyrannic requires a new commanding officer," he said with remarkable aplomb. "Kratas, you are without a command, aren't you? Congratulations, Captain."
Slowly, gingerly, the other Captains settled back into their chairs, attention squarely on Daala, as and two of her stormtroopers—battered breastplates and carbon-marked pauldrons marking them as survivors of the late Gorgon—entered to drag Nalgol's body unceremoniously away.
"As I said," Daala continued coolly, "once the ships here at Entralla have been re-equipped, we will be dividing our forces into two groups…"
Author's Notes: Welcome to Interregnum III! I'm going to keep author's notes to a minimum in this story; if you want to exchange comments with me I suggest doing it over on Ao3, where comments by the author can be much less intrusive on the content. There is a bit of additional content, a short story which also features Daala. It doesn't fit exactly into the main narrative of this story, but it provides a bit of additional context for her character and the minor divergences between Interregnum and the original EU chronology.
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