Silencer Station now had a throne room.

Irek had never been in the Emperor's throne room during the Empire's heyday. He was old enough to remember the Empire, but only in vague snippets, and his mother had kept him secluded with droid nannies and tutors. Clearer in his memory were the days following the catastrophic Battle of Endor and the subsequent adventure of his mother spiriting him out of their secret penthouse, only moments ahead of agents of Imperial Intelligence. He had thought it all a game at the time, realizing only much later just how seriously Ysanne Isard's goons had been intent on seeing them both dead.

Even in their subsequent exile, his mother had never let him forget that he was destined to be Emperor. He was strong in the Force, as the Emperor had been and as any Emperor must be. True wisdom and power came from the Force, and that was the point of the Force: to bestow wisdom and power on the chosen few, so that they might rule the blind.

Though he had never seen the Emperor's throne room, this space had an obvious splendor to it. It was an octagonal room with multiple concentric layers, so that anyone who entered would have to climb up stairs to the center. In that center was the throne. A new command interface, replicating the one that Cray had constructed, had been built into the polished mixture of durasteel and inset ebonwood, a messy array of wires formed into a gleaming crown that would descend down to fit over Irek's head when he sat upon it. All around the room were massive flatscreens and holoprojectors that would give the Emperor a plethora of visual information and feedback—although Irek knew from experience that just using the interface itself caused an overwhelming swell of sightsandsoundsandfeelings directly to his mind.

Perhaps, he thought trepidatiously, once he became accustomed to using the interface it would not be so overwhelming.

His stomach roiled, but though his back went damp with sweat he tried not to show his fear on his face. His last experience using the interface had been… he shied away from the word, but in the privacy of his own mind, away from the judgment of his mother or Halmere, he could not deny the experience had been terrifying. He did not want to use the interface again, but his mother needed him to keep them safe.

She was not to be disappointed.

She had spent her entire life fighting to protect him, fighting to see him elevated and crowned and the very least he could do would be to protect her.

Still, he wished Cray and Nichos were here. The two cyberneticists had become… a comfort to him. Nichos in particular—while the crippled cyberneticist was worthy only of shame in so many ways, his conversations had surprising wisdom to them. It had been Nichos' suggestion, after all, that allowed Irek to successfully command Silencer-7 with Cray's command interface.

Instead, Irek had only Halmere. The Emperor-Regent loomed, his large frame and heavy black and white armored robes providing the pale man with presence and dominating the space. But Halmere's attention was only partially on Irek—the older man had spent hours secluded in meditation, working with the station's astrogation computer. As Irek had… meditated… himself over having to sit in the new command throne, Halmere had worked silently, plotting hyperspace courses. On one of the throne room's large flatscreens, a map of Imperial space glowed with tiny triangular symbols, each one representing one of the New Order's remaining Star Destroyers. Halmere drew up courses for each one, guiding them through temporary hyperlanes that would normally be too risky for travel. Thanks to Halmere's astrogation, those Star Destroyers would be able to assemble into a single formation quickly, forming a reserve to defend Silencer Station.

At the moment, Halmere's attention remained on his meditation and astrogation. His dismissiveness of Irek was mildly insulting, but at the same time being ignored was better than being actively belittled.

Fear and obligation warred for control of his actions, and their combination rendered him in stasis. He stood at the bottom of the concentric layers, looking up at the throne and the constructed interface attached to it. This was his future, this was what it meant to be Emperor, to rule and to shape. This was what his mother had fought for, what he had been destined to since his birth. The obligation was strong, tugging him to climb up to the throne, to take it for himself.

But the voice of the AI, the sensation of being swallowed by a consciousness of seemingly infinite size, and his fear of that voice, rendered him still.

There was only one entrance to the throne room and Irek felt his mother's presence beyond it even before it slid open. Roganda Ismaren swept into the space, wearing a regal dress appropriate for the mother of the Emperor, crafted into black ruffles that swirled but did not hinder her steps. Her gaze locked upon him as she entered, and it seemed like the air around him became heavy with electricity as she approached.

"Son," she said.

"Mother," he greeted in return, trying to keep the uncertain waver felt out of his voice. He succeeded, but it didn't matter—she didn't need to hear the fear to feel it radiating off him in the Force. He'd never been able to hide anything from her.

She looked past him towards Halmere, her lips tightening with unhappiness, then returned her gaze to him. That expression was one he recognized all too well, it was the expression she had turned on him all his life after he had disappointed her. "You have not taken your throne."

"I wanted to wait until you returned," he lied.

Her eyebrows rise incrementally, her dark eyes measuring him. "I am here," she pointed out.

In the battle between obligation and terror, obligation won. He'd never been able to deny his mother anything and he could not deny her this. Despite his fear, despite his reluctance, he began to climb towards the throne. The stairs became steeper the higher he went, forcing him to be more careful with each step. At the top, he stumbled into the chair just to have the safety of secure balance.

The throne began to whir, the finely-machined inner workings of the machine shifting. He placed his hands on the armrests, in small indentations perfectly sized for them. Behind him, the interface sized precisely for his head settled over his head, cold metal pressing against his scalp; pressure in his skull grew as the neural connections were established one by one.

A whir, and a floor panel swept up, exposing an IV arm of nutrients and stimulants that reached out to his arm and hissed into his veins.

Fear and pain intermingled as the connections became more intense. He was aware of his mother and Halmere watching him, watching Silencer-7's tendrils insinuate themselves in his mind.

The moment of mergence passed and Irek's consciousness swam on a sea of thought. All around him was Silencer-7: its constant processing and evaluations, its sensors keeping watch as the station traveled through hyperspace, its awareness of him. It was as if Silencer-7 closed around him, suffocating, the sheer loudness of the AI almost drowning out Irek's own thoughts.

WELCOME, [DESIGNATE] EMPEROR.

The words sounded different than they had. Irek was no longer conscious of his body, could no longer feel his limbs or see with his own eyes, and yet still the words brought to mind the sensation of the hair on his arms, all sticking straight up.

WHAT IS YOUR WILL, [DESIGNATE] EMPEROR?

Was the AI placing more emphasis on the word 'designate' than it had been? There was a faint edge to the AI's tone, almost mocking. Irek set his jaw hard, scowling. "I am the Emperor," he claimed.

NOT YET.

Now Irek was sure it was mocking him. Was sure that the AI was toying with him. He had seen his mother toy with her prey on occasion—that one Intelligence operative she had captured, when he was much younger. She had kept that agent alive for weeks, stretching out his interrogation, extracting information with caresses and lightning alike. It had been a game to her—a game she had been very good at. He had admired her skill and power… but now he felt like the toy.

"I will be," he insisted fiercely, putting all his mother's confidence into the words.

The AI did not bother to respond. He could feel it, watching him from every angle, and somehow just being watched made him feel judged. I am not inadequate!

YOU FEAR. THE EMPEROR DOES NOT FEAR.

"I am the Emperor!" Irek insisted again, but even to his own ear the words sounded lame.

WHAT IS YOUR WILL, [DESIGNATE] EMPEROR?

The words he spoke came from beyond him, from the outside. "We are almost clear of hyperspace. Attack Poln Major when we are. Tactics at your discretion."

Was that a smirk Irek felt? And if it was, who did it belong to?

AS YOU COMMAND.

"Are you sure this is necessary?"

Gilad Pellaeon watched from the bridge of Chimaera. His fleet had dozens of logistics freighters, each loaded heavily with supplies meant to keep his Star Destroyers and smaller vessels combat-capable. Everything from food to concussion missiles was normally stocked on those ships, which could be tucked into a Star Destroyer's main hangar for quick loading and unloading.

At the moment, though, they had been turned to another purpose. Freighters lifted off from the surface of Poln Major, carrying families who had chosen to evacuate rather than stay. Grand Moff Ferrouz had chosen to inform people of the threat posed by the 'World Devastator', and many had chosen to evacuate. Each freighter rushed to Pellaeon's trio of Star Destroyers to disgorge their passengers, and Chimaera, Basilisk, and Gonfalon each were becoming host to a growing number of civilian refugees.

Next to him, Grand Moff Ferrouz watched, blank-faced, as the evacuation continued. He and his family had been among the first evacuees—a fact that had been widely publicized, in order to encourage the rest of the population to do the same.

"If the threat turns out to be overstated," Pellaeon continued, frowning, "we'll have undermined the planet's defenses unnecessarily. I can't take my Star Destroyers into battle—not with so many civilians aboard."

"Admiral Rogriss and the reserve fleet will be here," Ferrouz said. The Grand Moff's hands were folded behind his back, his attention locked on the sight of a transport vanishing into Basilisk's main hangar, escorted by a formation of TIE fighters. "They will be responsible for primary defense." Ferrouz shook his head. "Poln Major is an insignificant world by galactic standards. There is nothing down there worth more than the lives of its people. Baron Fel has assured me that there are numerous hospitable colony worlds under the control of the UREF, each of them hidden from the New Order."

Pellaeon did not like it. He did not like it at all. Since Endor it sometimes felt like he had never stopped running. Running from the Rebellion at Endor became running from the New Republic at Bilbringi and Ukio. Then he ran from the New Order at Carida, and was preparing to run again from the New Order at Poln Major. He'd run so far that his back was against the Unknown Regions and he was still running.

Clustered up against his formation, in a defensive posture, were the four Lively-class frigates that had been under the command of Captain Asori Rogriss. Pellaeon had found himself thinking about the young officer quite a lot since their discussion at the governor's mansion in Whitestone City. She had been so outspoken, so confident… and so bluntly dismissive of the Empire.

At first, he had taken refuge in the idea that she was merely too young to really understand. She hadn't lived under the Old Republic and the dysfunction of the Senate. She hadn't seen the inadequacies of the old Judicial Forces, the lack of preparation to address the threat of the Separatists. She hadn't seen the corruption that had been wrought through the halls of the Senate.

And yet… What if she was right?

It was a hard question for Pellaeon to ask himself. He had spent his life fighting for the Empire, and he was not a young man. He had decades of service behind him, and decades more for the Republic that had preceded the Empire. He knew things could be bad, that the Empire had not fixed every problem—he prided himself on not being one of ISB's useful idiots—but he had always been sure that the cause he fought for had been a just one.

What if it hadn't been?

He spent far too much time, thinking back, wondering if he could find a moment, some precise time and place, where his loyalty had become dishonorable. Had it been the declaration of Empire? But from his perspective, so little had changed after that. Palpatine had been Chancellor, then he had been Emperor. Orders had even still had the Senate's seal of approval.

But…

But he knew, didn't he. He'd long refused to let the thought resolve in his mind, but at the back of his skull he could feel lurking a memory. The first time Captain Drusan had ordered Chimaera to Kashyyyk. The first time Pellaeon's ship had sent stormtroopers down to the surface. The first time they had come back with prisoners.

"Status change!"

Pellaeon and Ferrouz turned towards the cry of alarm, then towards the command board. Upon it, a number of ships appeared at the edge of Poln Major's gravity well, already building speed again after their hyperspace transition.

"They're freighters, sir," someone announced, sounding relieved.

"Message for you, Admiral," announced Lieutenant Tschel from beside him. His expression was oddly uncertain… "It's Talon Karrde."

"Karrde?" Pellaeon said in surprise, and with more than a hint of anger. Talon Karrde's betrayals had long since earned him Pellaeon's ire. "What is he doing here?"

Tschel took a nervous breath. "He says his ships are here at the behest of the Jedi Order to assist with the planet's evacuation."

The beginning of a hot retort was on Pellaeon's tongue—

Grand Moff Ferrouz noticed Pellaeon's expression and anger and held up a soothing hand. "Tell Captain Karrde that we appreciate his assistance, and send them landing information," ordered Ferrouz from where he stood beside Pellaeon. "This is not the time for old rivalries, Admiral. We do not want to be enemies of the New Republic any longer—and we need their help."

"Of course," Pellaeon said with gruff stiffness. "Do as the Grand Moff orders," he relayed to his crew. Then he looked back to Tschel. "How did they get through the New Order patrols?" he asked. "All the major hyper-routes have regular Interdictor patrols."

Tschel shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, sir."

"Status change!"

This time, the new icons on the command board weren't freighters. Luckily, they were expected.

The Star Destroyer Agonizer came out of hyperspace, accompanied by seven other Imperial-class Star Destroyers. An array of smaller ships, including Victory, Enforcer, and Katana-class warships were their escorts. Most prominent was the cluster of Lively-class ships. TIEs and Clawcraft swarmed out of their hangars, immediately assuming CAP positions, while the entire formation moved rapidly into Poln Major's gravity well, into position to defend the planet.

"Communication for you from Admiral Rogriss, sir," said Tschel.

Pellaeon activated his flatscreen. Teren Rogriss grinned at him. "Your reinforcements have arrived, Gilad. Remain as you are, continue with the evacuation, and await further developments. When Silencer Station gets here, we'll engage it first."

"Glad to have you, sir," Pellaeon said, offering a quick salute.

Rogriss returned it, far more casually. "And you, Gilad. Please extend my compliments to your people."

Irek had never been integrated with Silencer-7 while the station was in hyperspace. It was an odd sensation: almost all of the station's sensor arrays were useless in hyperspace, so there were far fewer sensory inputs that the station had to process and fewer things that Irek himself needed to monitor. That left him in a state of relative calm, floating in the sea of Silencer-7's consciousness. He was barely conscious of his body in this state—he could tell that he still had one, of course, but even the sounds of his mother and Halmere, who were also in the station's throne room, were distant to the point of insignificance.

While his fear remained, his terror had largely subsided. If Silencer-7 was going to consume him, drag him down to drown in its vastness, it would have done so before now. To Silencer-7, Irek was just a conduit, a conductor of information from the humans who had constructed it.

"How do I become Emperor?" he asked. "And not just Designate-Emperor."

There was a ripple as attention turned to him.

THE EMPEROR IS THE WILL.

"What does that mean?"

He could feel the AI's consternation and attempt to reformulate its answer. It had only limited success.

TO BECOME EMPEROR THE [DESIGNATE] EMPEROR MUST BECOME THE WILL.

"What is the Will?"

A flood of emotion and memory washed over Irek. He grappled with it, trying to prevent it from washing away his sense of self under the sudden torrent of otherness. He saw glimpses of memory, or fantasy. Aliens from a race he did not recognize, working with Dark Force powers to empower objects that looked like the Seed his mother had installed in Silencer-7's core. Dark figures in flowing robes, with power in their eyes and red lightsabers in their hands. Lightning and might, command and purpose, subjugation and demand, all swirling in Irek's mind. All of it was confined in Silencer Station, a box that both contained and unleashed it.

THE WILL.

"H-how do I become the Will?" he asked warily, once he had regained the ability to formulate clear thoughts.

YOU MUST STOP RESISTING.

Irek frowned in consternation. What was that supposed to mean? "How am I resisting?"

EXITING HYPERSPACE.

All the sensors that had been silent roared to life as one. Monitors all around the station's throne room abruptly illuminated, and both upon the flatscreens and within Irek Ismaren's mind there was the sudden image of a star system. Icons blinked into existence one by one, marking the presence of enemy ships—dozens and dozens of enemy ships—and all of them surrounding and defending a circle marked Poln Major.

Irek opened his mouth to speak, preparing to relay orders from Halmere and Roganda to the station. Silencer-7 did not wait for him.

PREPARING TO ENGAGE. MANUFACTURING SWITCHING FROM STARFIGHTER PRODUCTION TO ANTI-SHIP COUNTERMEASURES. SHIELDS AND ARMOR AT PEAK EFFICIENCY. EVALUATING ENEMY CAPABILITIES.

. . .

PROBABILITY OF COMBAT VICTORY ESTIMATED AT NINETY-EIGHT POINT FIVE PERCENT.

Silencer Station's massive engines erupted and the platform began to move slowly through space, on a direct trajectory towards Poln Major. Even as Irek tried, he could not get a word in.

ENEMIES OF THE EMPIRE WILL BE ELIMINATED. THIS IS THE WILL.

On the monitors in Silencer Station's throne room, text whirred across the screens in large block letters.

ENEMIES OF THE EMPIRE WILL BE ELIMINATED. THIS IS THE WILL.

Roganda Ismaren looked up. Her son was ensconced in the command throne, silent and still, his mouth half-open. Words seemed to pass over his lips silently, but whatever it was he was saying was not meant for her and Halmere, but for the Silencer AI. Bond between man and machine would not be complete—not yet, not until after Irek had formally proclaimed himself Emperor—but the integration seemed more stable this time.

"You see, Halmere?" Roganda murmured with pride, smiling. "I prepared him all his life for this."

"Preen when we've won, Roganda," Halmere grunted. "Not before."

"Oh, I intend to," Roganda promised him with a smirk.

Battle klaxons screamed. Gilad Pellaeon smacked his command console to silence them.

"This is Admiral Rogriss!" called Teren's voice over the communications unit. "UREF vessels adopt conical formation, and prepare to engage the enemy!"

Teren's formation shifted into a broad, expanded formation designed to maximize their forward firepower. The outer edges pushed forwards while the inner ships pulled back slightly, putting them all roughly the same distance from the enemy. Any gun with a firing solution was trained precisely forward, giving the formation the ability to hurl as much firepower at a single target as possible. It was an amazingly aggressive posture, sacrificing defense to maximize the pain they could cause in the shortest possible time.

In the distance, far beyond Teren's ships, was the World Devastator.

A blocky, rectangular thing, the World Devastator was painted the kind of matte black that blocked out the space around it. It was larger than Pellaeon had expected, even larger than their intelligence had suggested. From side to side it was larger than two Imperial-class Star Destroyers pressed prow to engines. As Pellaeon watched, the Devastator's massive, rectangular central core slowly rotated towards the Imperial ships arrayed to fight it, presenting its underbelly. Pellaeon found himself looking at four feet, which framed the Devastator's four corners—they looked remarkably like AT-AT hooves—and an expanse of pure blackness.

But as he watched, that blackness flickered. Light coruscated across the Devastator's underbelly, coalescing into four lines that formed a rectangle around the void. Once those four lines were illuminated and bright, the space between them began to glow. Dimly at first, but brighter and brighter as Pellaeon watched, until the entire bottom of the Devastator blazed like a star.

MOLECULAR FURNACE ACTIVE. ANTI-SHIP COUNTERMEASURES PREPARED.

Silencer Station's engines burned to life. The massive station fell slowly towards its enemies, the hungry maw of the molecular furnate active and prepared to consume.

Irek Ismaren felt entirely helpless. He had been installed in the throne to command Silencer-7, but it was increasingly clear that the AI at the heart of the station was not interested in being commanded. He could feel the AI, almost like it had a presence in the Force—and Irek might not be an expert like his mother, but he knew that only living creatures were supposed to have presences in the Force. His questions went unanswered, buried under the litany of status updates as Silencer Station prepared to engage its enemies.

RANGE THIRTY KILOMETERS. CUTTING ACCELERATION TO ZERO. TARGET PRIORITY ESTABLISHED. ENGAGING PRIMARY TARGETS WITH ANTI-SHIP COUNTERMEASURES.

There was the feeling of sudden pressure released. Multiple corvette-sized shapes launched from large docking ports on the sides of Silencer Station, spinning on their massive banks of engines and racing towards the enemy formation of ships.

PREPARING ADDITIONAL ANTI-SHIP COUNTERMEASURES.

Turbolaser fire splashed against Silencer Station's shields. Irek felt it like rain falling on his skin—enough pressure to be noticed, not enough to be dangerous. It splashed over the Station harmlessly, unable to breach its massive overlapping shields, not even threatening the station's multilayered armor. Like gnats TIE droids poured out of Silencer Station's main hangar, swarming, and they were met by fighters that Silencer-7's AI recognized and some that it did not.

EVALUATING ENEMY STARSHIP DESIGNS. CONCLUSION: COMBINATION OF CHISS AND NEO-IMPERIAL DESIGN ELEMENTS. ADJUSTING ESTIMATED BATTLE OUTCOME. PROBABILITY OF COMBAT VICTORY NOW ESTIMATED AT NINETY-SIX PERCENT.

As Silencer Station's weapons swarmed over the enemy formation, so too did the AI's system processes swarm over Irek's mind. He tried to keep up, but there was too much.

… ADJUST TURBOLASER BATTERY SEVEN TO INCREASE SHIELD NEGATION PROBABILITY. SHIELD GENERATOR FIFTY-SEVEN HAS BEEN REDUCED TO EIGHTY-FIVE PERCENT CAPACITY, COMPENSATE BY SHIFTING POWER TO GENERATORS FIFTY-SIX AND FIFTY-EIGHT. PREPARING ADDITIONAL ANTI-SHIP COUNTERMEASURES. ENEMY STAR DESTROYER 'UNREMITTING' DAMAGED, REDUCE TARGETING PRIORITY…

Irek Ismaren was lost in a sea of the AI's thoughts. They washed over him, making it hard to concentrate or think, much less issue commands. Occasionally he felt his lips moving, but he had no idea what he was saying or to whom.

He remembered something Nichos had said, something that had proven to be good advice. "Empty your mind." His mind was too full, too full of thoughts that weren't his, too full of Silencer-7. Irek stopped listening, stopped paying attention, trying to find himself as the waves of thought threatened to topple him under. He focused on emptiness, on the Force itself, on listening not to his own desires or Silencer-7, but just to the power that was there ever at his fingertips, at the edges of his thought.

There he felt something else.

A million minds. Stormtroopers and aliens, politicians and civilians. All the people of Poln Major were out there, fleeing into the void. As scared as he was, they were just as scared and just as lost.

All his life, his mother had told him that they were the only people that mattered. That they were special, destined for greatness. That the Empire was owed to them and theirs to take, and that wherever it cost, whatever it took, was irrelevant. That their rule was demanded by the Force itself.

But he didn't feel special.

It was all he could do not to drown.