Chapter The Third:

In Which Many Things Happen At Once.

And thus did the Dark Side reign supreme over all of the Earth, and none sought to contest its might… right?

Errrr… not quite.

The Jedi were not completely extinguished. Although Purges had slain many Jedi, some still lived, hiding on remote worlds. These Jedi flocked to the banner of the New Republic. Leia Organa and her allies had lived, and they organized a Rebellion composed of Jedi and Light Wizards from Earth; as well as Rebel forces, smugglers discontent with the Empire's rule, and even odder allies. Jedi survivors, such as Master Yoda and Master Fay had allied themselves with the Rebellion in attempt to return life to the dream they had served.

The dream of democracy.

They had, as the saying goes, set up camp in a desolate corner of the universe, a place ten parsecs from nowhere, the jumping-off point of Hell, a little rock the wizards had named New Albion, in honor of the land where Hogwarts had stood, proud and free, before the dominion of the Empire.

And to this desolate place came a most unusual, and most appropriate, visitor.

-From A History of the Rebellion and it's Ramifications, by Faldwar Fiddlewhoop.

Albus Dumbledore drew the hood of his grey cloak defensively over his face, and wrapped the cloak tighter around himself to prevent the tell-tale eye-searing purple of his robes from showing. The howling wind sought to tear his cloak from him, and he fought with equal fervor to keep it on. If anyone identified him, and squealed to the Imperials, New Albion would be compromised.

And New Albion could not be compromised.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore would not let New Albion be compromised.

To the best of his knowledge, the Imperials had no idea in the slightest as to the location of the Rebellion's primary base. That would not change.

Ah, there was the door. The door seemed like nothing more than a splash of bluish rock in the dark-grey granite of the cliff-face, but it was truly a concealed door to the Rebellion's head-quarters.

Well, he thought. Now comes the hard part.

While Dumbledore was trying to get the Bounty Hunter's Guild to join the Rebellion (and succeeding with a speech that would go down in history), Harry was sitting on a small, uncomfortable stool in the Great Hall, looking very nervously at the several-hundred odd students, who watched back intently, hoping that the boy-who-lived would be Sorted into their house.

"Hmmm," the Sorting Hat murmured. "Ah…"

"Ah, what?" Harry snapped irritably. "What do you see?"

The Hat tilted on his head, and Harry got the feeling that its eyebrows would have angled, had it had them. "I see an impatient boy who needs to learn how to respect his elders. And, with nearly two millennia over you, I'm quite elderer."

"S'not a word," Harry grumbled, but kept his peace, otherwise.

"Quite a streak of ambition, I see; yes, very Slytherin. Not a bad mind, too; you could make a fine scholar, and the Ravens would be proud to have, once you stopped getting others to do you studying for you." This was, undoubtedly, a dig at Harry's bullying poor Dudley into doing his research paper for English. "Hmmm, too much ambition for a Raven, I think. SLYTHERIN!"

SLYTHERIN NOTICE BOARD:

(Official Notice)

There will be no magic in the corridors between class. Violators will be given detention.

There will be no graffiti in the bathrooms. Violators will be whipped.

There will be no slandering of the name or reputation of the Emperor, his Apprentice, headmaster Sbaoe, or the Empire and Academy in general. Violators will be cruciated.

Albus Dumbledore leaned back in his chair at the Council table on New Albion, gazing serenely at the motley collection of Jedi, Rebels, bounty hunters, and smugglers that formed the galactic portion of the Rebellion. The earthly portion sat to his right and left, in the forms of Professors Snape and McGonagal and Aurors Tonks and Shacklebolt.

Earth's allies stared back at Dumbledore with varied expressions; distrust, interest, boredom, and even fear were all in evidence. In fact, Master Fay's padawan was the only one who was not looking at Dumbledore; he was, in fact, staring into space, humming 'Scarborough Fair' to himself.

The head of the Bounty Hunter's Guild, Cradossk, glared at the headmaster with the twin emotions of distrust and suspicion etched on his face. "What, exactly, do you want with the Guild, Dumbledore?" Cradossk hissed.

"I should think," one of the other hunters, a woman with black hair and long black coat, lazily interjected, "that how much he'll pay is the more important question."

"That," Cradossk snapped, "is why I head the Guild, and not you, Zardra."

"You head the Guild because you backstabbed all your competitors," the man sitting next to her snapped.

Cradossk glared at him. "Something you'd do well to keep in mind, Alaric. They were far above you, those I killed, and I could kill you-"

"Enough, please," Dumbledore said quietly. "Infighting aids only our enemies."

"Correct Headmaster Dumbledore is," agreed Yoda quietly. "If fight amongst ourselves we do, the Dark Side we aid, not the Light. And," he added, shooting a chiding look at Cradossk, "your payment you just might lessen. Although, think I should that the knowledge of the Emperor's dislike of the Guild reason enough to help should be."

"Indeed," said Mon Mothma coolly. "If you insist on acting like a barbarian, bounty hunter, we'll insist on an exasperation deduction."

A Jedi clad in grey robes with leather-reinforced sleeves snickered behind her, and was rewarded with a slight smile.

Cradossk merely hissed.

The room that the Emperor received visitors in on the world of Byss was sumptuously decorated. Tapestries that had been taken from tombs of ancient Sith Lords detailing the powers of the Dark Side hung on the walls. The chairs that were placed around the table made of rare zeke wood were crafted of bloodwood and upholstered in askajiaan fabric, the most costly fabric in the galaxy. Abstract bronzium sculptures of ancient philosophers stood guard over the entrance, and ancient Sith relics lined the walls.

Grand Moff Tarkin hated it.

An ascetic by nature, Tarkin was disgusted to see the money that had been wasted, merely for the glorification of a half-mummified, power-hungry, deranged Sith monarch. He sat amidst millions, no, billions of credits worth of impractical finery while Imperial soldiers fought with blasters that had smudged and cloudy focussing crystals (accounting for the legendary bad aim of stormtroopers; even a master marksman would miss eight times out of ten with those) and Imperial pilots flew fighters that had no shields. It was a disgrace.

Nevertheless, he did his best to smile charmingly at the Emperor.

The aforementioned deranged mummy-Sith shifted in his throne (which was made of bones; Tarkin didn't care to speculate whose) and said "Governor Tarkin. How pleasant of you to join me. And who," he added, his gaze fastening on Tarkin's companion, "is this? I have received no word of a Lady Tarkin. And really, Wilhuff, giving the rank of Admiral to your concubine is rather excessive."

Tarkin kept his face studiously blank. The Emperor knew full well who she was; he was simply mocking the both of them. "You Imperial Majesty, may I introduce Admiral Daala, my protégé."

"Hmmm," the Emperor murmured. "Yes… She has some strength to her, and wit too. Or so I would assume, given her remarkable calm."

It was just like the old bat to test them like this, Tarkin reflected.

"You Majesty," Daala said, bowing deeply. "It is an great honor."

"Daala," Tarkin explained, "is my recommendation for the post of Governor of Earth. I believe that, of all the Admiralty, she is best suited to deal with the Earth situation. She will far surpass her predecessor, Governor Frax. You will recall, I trust, that Admiral Daala oversaw the taskforce that defended Bevel Lemelisk and the other scientists who invented the Death Star, among other inventions."

"Yes, I know," Palpatine replied dismissively. "Petty toys, they were. Remember, Tarkin, machines are nothing next to the might of the Force. Had I not been on the Death Star to counter young Skywalker, the Death Star might well have been destroyed and the Rebellion triumphant. But," he added lightly, "enough of that. I assume that your recommendation comes with the approval of the Council of Moffs?"

"Of course, you Majesty. I have their full support." Or, rather, he had gained their full support after the two loudest dissenters had eaten some bad shellfish, courtesy of bounty hunter and assassin Alaric Acheron. Very bad shellfish. Tarkin had no idea in the slightest why the Genoharadan had felt the need to offer him their services in this matter, but he was grateful nonetheless.

"And you, I trust, are duly aware of the honor done to you by the Council?" Palpatine droned in the tones of one who truly didn't give a hoot.

"Most aware, Majesty," Daala agreed. "And quite overwhelmed."

"We can only hope that the task is not similarly overwhelming," the Sith Lord purred evilly.

Alaric Acheron settled back in his chair, wiggling slightly to find a comfortable position in the brushed-steel contraption, raised his glass, and swallowed the shot of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey, wincing slightly as he did so. That stuff was strong, and he wasn't much of a drinker. But Zardra had challenged him to a drinking contest, and he was damned if he was going to wimp out.

They were both sitting at a private table at the Hekate, a Wizarding nightclub (although it also operated during the day) that had a reputation as the most stylish place for Dark Wizards and Light to meet, discuss things, and get pasted on a plethora of alcoholic beverages. The décor involved a lot of brushed steel, with exposed girders futuristically perforated with holes down the length and polished to a liquid sheen and blue accent lights and fog machines placed at regular intervals around the place (rumor had it that the designer had been muggle). Even the tables had blue lights inset in their translucent plastic tops.

Zardra smiled slightly, and tossed back her drink with far greater ease than Alaric had shown. "I'll bet you wish you were back on you ship reading, eh?" she drawled.

"Oh, no. Alcohol aside, the company is infinitely preferable to that found in my ship. Astro droids are great pilots, but poor conversashhio… conversationalists."

"Ah. A point, I'll admit," she acknowledged.

Alaric lifted his glass, triumphantly threw it back, and slowly slid onto the table in a dead faint.

"Lightweight," Zardra muttered.