A Grand Admiral Returns
Captain Pellaeon stood on the bridge of the Star Destroyer Chimaera , looking out the viewport at the stars beyond. Once, all of those stars had belonged to the Empire, and every being on every planet around them had bent knee before the Emperor’s majesty. Now the Empire, or what was left of it, occupied barely a quarter of the systems of the Known Galaxy. The Emperor was dead, his Empire dying. And for four years it had seemed like Pellaeon alone was holding the remnants together. Today, he would relenquish that duty to another.
Around him, on the command deck and in the crew pit beneath, the young crewers worked to keep Chimaera in position on the frontier boundary. They were trying to behave like proper Imperials, he had to admit. But trying wasn’t good enough to stop the expanding New Republic. So many of the experienced officers and crewers had died with the Emperor four years past … had died with the Executor … with the second Death Star. So many deaths. So many dead. Just like the Empire …
“No!” Pellaeon shouted to himself, driving the weariness and melancholy out of his system. The Empire was not dead. It was wounded, there was no denying that. And it was listing like a war-torn ship, its hull breached and its life support failing … but like that ship, the Empire still had some fight left in it. It still had the ability to take its enemies with it on the final jump, and maybe it had even more than that. Maybe the war would finally take a turn.
Pellaeon thought back to the Battle of Endor. His own commander had died when the Chimaera took a hit from a Mon Calamari Star Cruiser, and he stepped forward to command the vessel. When the Fleet was reduced to a disorganized shadow of its former self and its destruction seemed imminent, it was Pellaeon who ordered the ships to withdraw. For four years he had struggled to keep the Fleet together and keep the Empire intact. But he was losing. Every day that passed saw another system slip from their grasp, and another victory register for the New Republic. It was harder and harder to keep the other ship commanders in line, and prevent individual Moffs from declaring their sectors new governments. They were fighting a two-pronged war — a rear-guard harassment against what used to be the Rebel Alliance, and a battle against the ambitions and desires of those Imperials with even a small measure of personal power.
The captain was tired. He was old, and his ideals were from a different age. He had served beneath men such as Lord Darth Vader, Grand Moff Tarkin, and Admiral Piett. He had received orders from the Emperor. Now he saw the end in sight, the end of everything he had believed in and served. At least, that was the way he felt a few days past — and then the message arrived.
It came out of the Unknown Regions in a packet of encrypted holo bursts, bypassing all other communications sensors, in favor of the Emperor’s private holopod comm units that had been installed within every Star Destroyer early in Imperial history. Through these holopods, the Emperor and his most-trusted servants could communicate over vast distances. Even the encrypt codes were right. When Pellaeon was made aware of the incoming signals, a shiver ran up his spine. No one had used the holopods since the death of the Emperor. It was a ghost from the past, and Pellaeon stared at the comm board for a long time. “Message received,” the board indicated, blinking the words across the priority screen in urgent intervals. Finally, Captain Pelleaon turned away from the comm board and stepped into the holopod to receive the message.
Pellaeon kneeled before the pod, expecting to see the Emperor’s grim visage appear in holographic form above his head. Instead, he was greeted by a blue-skinned humanoid with powerful features and glowing red eyes. Those eyes seemed to bore into him, taking the measure of the man with burning intensity. But it was the voice that
Captain Pellaeon stood on the bridge of the Star Destroyer Chimaera , looking out the viewport at the stars beyond. Once, all of those stars had belonged to the Empire, and every being on every planet around them had bent knee before the Emperor’s majesty. Now the Empire, or what was left of it, occupied barely a quarter of the systems of the Known Galaxy. The Emperor was dead, his Empire dying. And for four years it had seemed like Pellaeon alone was holding the remnants together. Today, he would relenquish that duty to another.
Around him, on the command deck and in the crew pit beneath, the young crewers worked to keep Chimaera in position on the frontier boundary. They were trying to behave like proper Imperials, he had to admit. But trying wasn’t good enough to stop the expanding New Republic. So many of the experienced officers and crewers had died with the Emperor four years past … had died with the Executor … with the second Death Star. So many deaths. So many dead. Just like the Empire …
“No!” Pellaeon shouted to himself, driving the weariness and melancholy out of his system. The Empire was not dead. It was wounded, there was no denying that. And it was listing like a war-torn ship, its hull breached and its life support failing … but like that ship, the Empire still had some fight left in it. It still had the ability to take its enemies with it on the final jump, and maybe it had even more than that. Maybe the war would finally take a turn.
Pellaeon thought back to the Battle of Endor. His own commander had died when the Chimaera took a hit from a Mon Calamari Star Cruiser, and he stepped forward to command the vessel. When the Fleet was reduced to a disorganized shadow of its former self and its destruction seemed imminent, it was Pellaeon who ordered the ships to withdraw. For four years he had struggled to keep the Fleet together and keep the Empire intact. But he was losing. Every day that passed saw another system slip from their grasp, and another victory register for the New Republic. It was harder and harder to keep the other ship commanders in line, and prevent individual Moffs from declaring their sectors new governments. They were fighting a two-pronged war — a rear-guard harassment against what used to be the Rebel Alliance, and a battle against the ambitions and desires of those Imperials with even a small measure of personal power.
The captain was tired. He was old, and his ideals were from a different age. He had served beneath men such as Lord Darth Vader, Grand Moff Tarkin, and Admiral Piett. He had received orders from the Emperor. Now he saw the end in sight, the end of everything he had believed in and served. At least, that was the way he felt a few days past — and then the message arrived.
It came out of the Unknown Regions in a packet of encrypted holo bursts, bypassing all other communications sensors, in favor of the Emperor’s private holopod comm units that had been installed within every Star Destroyer early in Imperial history. Through these holopods, the Emperor and his most-trusted servants could communicate over vast distances. Even the encrypt codes were right. When Pellaeon was made aware of the incoming signals, a shiver ran up his spine. No one had used the holopods since the death of the Emperor. It was a ghost from the past, and Pellaeon stared at the comm board for a long time. “Message received,” the board indicated, blinking the words across the priority screen in urgent intervals. Finally, Captain Pelleaon turned away from the comm board and stepped into the holopod to receive the message.
Pellaeon kneeled before the pod, expecting to see the Emperor’s grim visage appear in holographic form above his head. Instead, he was greeted by a blue-skinned humanoid with powerful features and glowing red eyes. Those eyes seemed to bore into him, taking the measure of the man with burning intensity. But it was the voice that
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