I.

Rieekan bounded down the transport's ramp to meet the deck officer and the two medics. The squad of stormtroopers following them reacted, with the first two troops in the formation lifting their rifles at his approach. Rieekan, ostensibly in a panic, ignored them. "Come on, come on!" He pumped his arm vigorously, waving the medics up the ramp. "He's fading—I can't find a pulse."

The medics looked to the deck officer, who grudgingly nodded in the affirmative. They took off up the ramp with Rieekan leading the way. From behind, Rieekan heard the officer issue orders. "Guard all access points," he told the lead trooper. "No one leaves this ship without my authorization."

Inside the ship, Rieekan rounded a corner and jogged past three of his men, all looking battered and bloodied in their stolen Imperial uniforms. The medics paused upon seeing them, but Rieekan urged them onward. "Come on—not them. It's Garrisee, up here."

He approached the body of Corporal Garrisee—an actual dead Imperial soldier—who Tycho was crouched over, his fingers jammed into the carotid artery. Tycho's face was the very portrait of concern as he addressed Rieekan. "I've got nothing, Lieutentant. He's not breathing."

"One side, Flight Officer," Rieekan scolded him. "Let the docs do their job."

Tycho popped up and stepped back as the two medics dropped down on either side of Garrisee, who sported a cavernous blaster burn in the center of his chest. They had just started running their scanners over his torso when the deck officer strode into the hold.

Rieekan shook his head in disgust. "Rebel scum." He pointed emphatically at the unmoving Garrisee. "Blind-siding our boys down there. Star-damned cowards are what they are."

The deck officer raised a hand to calm Rieekan, but that was a fool's errand. This was a man who'd just narrowly escaped his own end. Who'd leapt clear of the snapping jaws of hell. And who needed to vent.

"These so-called pacifists," Rieekan ranted, "who we feed and shelter. They just bit the hand, my friend."

"Lieutenant, if you'll please calm—

"There's only one way to answer this," he continued. He pointed off to the side, as if the Alderaanian refugees were standing around out on the hangar deck. "There's only one response these traitors understand."

The deck officer's face was hardening into a scowl. "Lieutenant, you need to make your report before I—

"Sir," a medic interrupted them. "I don't understand this. The core temperature of this body is abnormally low."

The deck officer was impatient. "So is he dead?"

"He's dead all right, sir. But according to my readings, he's been dead for nearly two hours."

The deck officer's eyes widened, and as his hand moved to his sidearm, Rieekan launched into his indignant objections. "That's totally impossible. The poor bastard was crying for his mother not five minutes ago. Check the sensor scans from when we landed—there were six life readings!"

The deck officer drew his pistol and leveled it at Rieekan's chest. "Not another word." He turned his head to the side and shouted out over his shoulder. "Guards!"

Rieekan cursed inwardly. The preferred plan had been to quietly subdue the deck officer and a small medical team before sneaking off their short-range ship to steal a hyper-capable one. The presence of a full squad of stormtroopers, coupled with the overly-cool body temperature of Mr. Garrisee, had now necessitated a shift to plan B.

The medics scurried clear of the body and a moment later, Rieekan heard the sharp impacts of stormtrooper boots coming from the far end of the ship. The deck officer held out his free hand to Rieekan.

"Your ID badge."

Rieekan's back straightened, and he drew in a deep breath. "Well," he said quite loudly. "It's a sad state of affairs."

On that code phrase, the storage hatch immediately to the right of the deck officer swung open, and the sixth life sign the Imperial sensors had registered—from the sixth man on the Alderaanian team (who was very much alive)—fired his assault rifle, the scarlet bolt searing through the deck officer's temple and pitching him into the opposite bulk head.

Tycho had already been poised to draw, and shoved Rieekan clear as he quickly brought up his gun hand, snapping off a pair of stun blasts into the backs of the fleeing medics. Both men dropped face-first to deck.

Rieekan shouted to the three Alderaanians at the opposite end of the hold. "Get that blast door shut, now!"

The closest of the three reached for the control, only to step into a bolt from a stormtrooper's rifle, igniting his chest and hurling him across the hold. As a flurry of shots came through the hatchway, Rieekan's sharp eyes spotted a deadlier threat—a steel canister struck the bulk head and ricocheted into their compartment, clanging along the deck plates until it rolled to a stop.

It was a fragment grenade.

Even as Rieekan began to cry out a warning, strong hands grabbed him under both arms. Tycho bear hugged him from behind and spun him around, throwing him clear of the hold and into the cockpit. He dove on top of Rieekan just as an air-rending shriek tore through the enclosed space of the hold behind them, blowing white-hot steel shards in every direction.

Tycho screamed in Rieekan's ear as his exposed thigh, calf and foot were peppered with flak. Rieekan himself felt the sting of a few isolated splinters, but it was the younger man who'd taken the brunt of it.

But that had been nothing compared to the rest of their team. Tycho's maneuver had propelled them into the cockpit, helping them to avoid the worst of the blast pattern. But as Rieekan rolled Tycho off of himself, he had to force down a gag reflex at the sight of their countrymen, still twitching in agony, each man utterly unrecognizable.

Rieekan hefted his pistol as the first stormtrooper eased cautiously around the corner. The general greeted him with a bolt through his face plate, then immediately shifted his aim over to the blast door wall switch. He fired a second shot, shorting the controls. Two heavy durasteel doors slid out from opposite sides and slammed shut.

Rieekan lurched back towards the flight console. "Where's the damned ramp controls?" he demanded.

Tycho forced an answer through gritted teeth. "Bottom left."

Rieekan slapped the button, and then crouched back down to wrestle Tycho up from the floor. "Come on, soldier. You're the only one who can fly this thing."

He dumped Tycho into the pilot's seat, causing him to groan in pain. "What about the stormies?" Tycho asked.

"We got them bottled up in the aft section," Rieekan said. "They can't get off the ship and they can't get in here."

"And where are we supposed to go?" Tycho asked. "This thing still has no hyperdrive. As soon as we fly into open space they'll blast us to hell."

The burly old warrior clamped a hand on Tycho's shoulder and grinned down at him. "Who said anything about open space?" He pointed towards the open chasm in the center of the docking bay. It was the enormous elevator shaft used by the star destroyer's industrial load lifter—a massive platform that could move ships or heavy equipment or even whole platoons of troopers from deck to deck. "Make for the next level. And buckle up, Celchu." Rieekan dropped into the neighboring copilot seat and strapped in. "We're going to fly at unsafe speeds."

Before Tycho could respond, the wailing klaxons of the star destroyer's alarms filled the docking bay. Clearly the captive stormtroopers had spared a moment to alert the bridge about the intruders. Tycho wasted no time, and jabbed the anti-grav control, bringing the lumbering transport ship floating up from the deck. He brought the bow of the ship around and aimed it at the open elevator shaft. Using the main drive inside a docking bay was out of the question—but it occurred to Tycho that maneuvering thrusters on full was perhaps only slightly insane.

"Punch it," Rieekan ordered.

Tycho used his good leg to stomp on the thruster pedal, and the transport lurched forward. It accelerated at a pace both gradual and fast, much like a high-powered freight train. The technicians working the deck scattered in a panic as they soared across the bay toward the open shaft.

From behind them, a shower of sparks blossomed from the seam of the blast door.

"They're coming through," Tycho said.

Rieekan gripped the console in front of him with both hands. "Head down a level," he said.

The transport plunged through the shaft opening at a sharp downward angle, slipping into the docking bay immediately below.

"And hit the deck."

Tycho turned to him in confusion.

"Literally," the general said. "Full speed."

Tycho said a silent prayer and threw the yolk forward, bring them down hard into the deck. The ship's landing struts snapped off like twigs, and both men were thrown forward against their restraints as the belly went skidding and sparking along the deck. Looking ahead, Tycho could see the growing profile of a gamma assault shuttle parked directly in their path. "Brace yourself!" he shouted.

Screeching across the deck, the transport slammed into the assault shuttle, which was the first in a full formation of ships lined up along side it. The impact pushed the first shuttle into the second, and in an impressive domino effect, each of the shuttles twisted to the right, crashing into its neighbor. This knocked the whole squadron significantly off center, with all ships sliding well away from their original positions. Finally, the scraping of landing gears and the groaning of bent metal abated, and Tycho's transport—and all seven shuttles—slid to a stop.

Tycho let go of the console ahead of him. The nose of their ship had crumpled inward, and the console had wound up practically in his lap. He unbuckled his harness and turned back towards the blast doors. He saw that the sparks from the stormtrooper's cutting torch had stopped. Apparently, high velocity plus sudden impact—minus a safety harness—had equaled a negative outcome for their armored passengers in the aft hold.

Small flames began to lick out from inside the crushed control console.

Tycho hopped onto his good foot and hobbled back from it.

"Come on," Rieekan said. "Let's blow the canopy."

They each reached up to the upper corner where the canopy met the fuselage and gripped a yellow lever. Rieekan looked at Tycho at counted off. "Three, two, one—go."

They each pulled their lever and the canopy bubble burst clear of the fuselage, flipping through the air for several seconds before impacting loudly on some far part of the deck. By that time, the two men were already sliding down the damaged hull to the hangar deck below.

Without the benefit of two working legs, Tycho immediately lost his footing upon landing. Rieekan reached down and threw the young pilot's arm around the back of his neck, hoisting him up to his feet. The alarm klaxons continued to echo through the cavernous docking bay, along with sporadic shouts from crewmembers in the vicinity. Rieekan moved Tycho towards the jumbled collection of assault shuttles.

"First one of these things you think will still fly," Rieekan grunted, "we take."

Movement caught Tycho's eye, and he turned to see a pair of black-clad naval troopers running towards them with weapons drawn. Still holding onto Rieekan with his left arm, he shifted his gun hand and fired several shots in their direction, forcing them to take cover behind some containers on the deck.

"What about this one?" Rieekan asked.

Tycho refocused his attention onto the shuttle directly ahead. Unlike the last one, the canopy had not cracked and the wings appeared unbent.

"Should be good," he said. He turned back and saw the naval troopers coming out from behind cover. The lead trooper fired a smattering a shots in their direction, one of which passed only a centimeter from Tycho's head. Rieekan spun around and Tycho fired another half-dozen shots back at the naval troopers, the last one catching a trooper in the throat and dropping him to the deck. A hundred meters behind them, a turbolift door opened and a full squad of stormtroopers came charging out.

Tycho's view shifted violently as Rieekan turned back around and climbed the shuttle's angled ramp. He felt a sense of vertigo, and suddenly, the pain began to tip the scales away from adrenaline and back towards agony.

He lost a few moments somewhere in there, and now awoke to repeated impacts against his cheeks that had likely begun as firm patting and had just now crossed over into slapping.

"Damn it, Celchu, come on—they're setting up an E-Web out there."

He could hear the dampened cacophony of a dozen-plus blaster bolts striking the hull like an angry hive of hornets. Handheld firearms couldn't do much to a starship's hull, but a mounted E-Web cannon would sure as hell do the trick.

"I'm here," Tycho croaked. He opened his eyes to find the general standing over him, having dumped him into yet another pilot's seat.

"Welcome back. Now we head for open space. I hope you're prepared to show me those ace flying skills I've heard to much about." Rieekan strapped into the adjacent chair. "Just don't pass out on me again."

Thirty seconds later, the gamma assault shuttle came tearing out of the Devastator's forward launch bay. Tycho kept them tight against the destroyer's ventral hull where the turbo laser cannons would have the hardest time tracking them. The gunners fired incessantly nonetheless, but their arcs were too wide to be a threat—at least until they had to make a break for it.

Black specks began to creep in from the corners of his eyes, and he shook his head briskly to fight them back. Amidst the hundreds of metal splinters in his leg, he just barely felt the syringe Rieekan stuck into his thigh—apparently he'd located the ship's first-aid kit. Tycho exhaled as the pain lessened noticeably.

"Make for the gas cloud," Rieekan ordered, pointing towards the glowing expanse of the Wilderness Nebula. The gaseous phenomenon had masked the Alderaanian prison world from sensors and communication signals, and would shield the shuttle from the Imperials in the same manner.

Tycho banked hard to starboard, soaring away from the destroyer and towards the nebula. He weaved side to side in irregular patterns, trying to throw off the gunners as they blanketed the space around them with heavy energy bolts. A shot found their rear shields, slamming both men forward in their seats.

"Down to thirty-eight percent," Rieekan warned.

"We're there—hang on."

Tycho plunged the ship into the nebula, leaving only a puff of glowing vapor behind as the cloud swallowed them whole.

II.

Soontir Fel sat with Captain Devar in the Devastator's tactical operations room. On the large view screen in front of them, they watched security footage of two men in Imperial uniforms. The younger man was wounded, and limped along with the aid of the stouter, older man. A few blaster shots passed near them, and the older man swung the younger man back around, who fired several shots back at their pursuers. At that moment, both men's faces became clearly visible.

"Freeze image," Devar ordered. He gestured to the older man on the screen. "You'll recognize him, of course."

Fel suppressed his annoyance. He was once again being tested by the captain, who assumed he did not know who the infiltrator was, and wanted to expose Fel's ignorance. As it happened, his response came without hesitation. "Carlist Rieekan. Former general and the highest ranking Alderaanian in the service."

Devar tapped the table with his stylus, no doubt more sharply than he meant to. What he could not have realized was that Fel had made it a point to review the list of Alderaanian servicemen who were purged from the military—a decision he strongly disagreed with. Due to their planet's pacifistic nature, there were only a few hundred of them spread across all divisions, so it made it that much easier to remember the handful of combat officers. Especially the famous ones.

And those with whom he'd personally served.

Fel gestured at the younger man. "And you, sir, no doubt recognize Rieekan's accomplice."

Devar looked down at his data pad for several moments. His face darkened.

He has no idea.

"Since you obviously know," Devar bit out, "I'll allow you the opportunity to impress me."

The captain's attitude toward Fel—an acute mixture of insecurity and contempt—was undoubtedly born from Fel's unique role aboard ship. Upon Fel's recovery from the wounds he suffered at Lakaron, Lord Vader had designated him tactical commander of the Devastator. This meant that while Devar had ultimate authority over ship personnel and general operations, Fel was in command of the ship's overall mission, and furthermore, had full discretion to determine what that mission would be. It had not made for a happy partnership between the two.

"That is Lieutenant Tycho Celchu," Fel told him. "Former TIE squadron commander and another Alderaanian national. He has been a fugitive at large, wanted for the murder of an officer at Commenor last month." He cast a short, sideways look at Devar. "Perhaps you missed the report."

Devar exhaled sharply. "A star destroyer commander can't afford to wile away his days reading about every minor fugitive in the Empire."

Fel nodded. "Of course, sir." He considered pointing out to the captain that Celchu was, in fact, designated a top priority target by Imperial Intelligence, but decided to let it go. He was a professional combat officer, not a political appointee like Devar. He did not need to stoop to the constant and meaningless verbal sniping that his kind did. Besides, Devar was bringing up Celchu's record on his data pad presently, and would quickly see the facts for himself.

Devar sat up a bit straighter. "Celchu, yes." He fixed Fel with a wolfish smile. "A former cadet of yours, I see."

"That's correct."

"And was it not another pair of your former cadets who mutinied on the Rand Ecliptic and took part in the rebel's Death Star attack?"

Fel fought to keep his expression passive. "I'll remind you that I've trained thousands of pilots for the Empire, Captain."

Devar raised his eyebrows. "That's good to know. I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever trained anyone who hadn't betrayed the Emperor."

Fel said nothing, but he felt his face warming, and his heart rate quickening.

Devar stood back from the table, leaving Fel seething in silence. "As it stands, these two Alderaanians have escaped, and we can only assume they'll provide the location of the refugee center to the rebellion. Secrecy was of paramount importance in Project Ember, and now that secrecy has been lost. So if you'll excuse me, I need to report to my commanders, as I am sure you must report to yours. Assuming either of us survive the delivery of this news, we will need to make immediate preparations to defend this planet."

III.

Armand Isard had returned to his home base on Imperial Center—even under threat of murder by Darth Vader—to make certain he was not seen as having abdicated his particular throne as the director of intelligence.

His own daughter had defected from his ranks, aligning herself with Vader to circumvent and undermine his authority. Against his explicit orders, she had lead an operation to sack The Alderaan Spirit, the top producer of rebel propaganda in the galaxy. It was an enormous coup, and the most substantial intelligence victory since the disaster at Yavin.

And I had nothing to do with it. On the contrary—I blocked them both. I deprived Vader of all intelligence and Ysanne of all resources. But they had each filled the void for the other, forming a complete and effective force, and were now riding high on their accomplishment. In some faint way, it occurred to him that he should be proud of what a capable operative she'd become under his tutelage, but the louder voice in his mind abhorred the act of treason, and the potential damage it would do to his standing in the Empire.

Armand's own plan to ferret out the rebels had been to spend a fair percentage of the Empire's treasury buying up fleets of secondhand battleships. He had kept them off the market long enough for all to be rigged with eavesdropping and homing devices. The Emperor was displeased with the plan, but Armand assured him of its success. And to date, I have nothing to show for it.

He turned around in his high-backed chair to look out from his office viewport. It was a few hours past sundown, and he looked past his own somber reflection in the window pane, across the glittering plaza that culminated in the spectacular towers of the Imperial Palace. Where he was due to provide his scheduled status report to His Excellency.

For now, he would focus on the ongoing propaganda campaign and the recent discovery of an unregistered Alderaanian settlement on the outer rim. Now that those refugees had been taken into protective custody and were en route to the secret resettlement camp, the success of Operation Ember was nearly at hand.

He nodded to himself, taking heart from the steely-eyed reflection staring back at him. He was still Armand Isard. Still the finest intelligence agent in the galaxy.

His presentation would go perfectly fine.

Armand finished speaking and bowed his head until it nearly touched his bended knee. The Emperor, seated on his throne, responded.

"Very well, Director," he said. "With this latest roundup of vulnerable refugees, we will now announce that asylum has been provided to all—

The Emperor stopped speaking and his chin abruptly snapped to the side. "What is it?" he demanded, looking to the shadowy recesses adjacent to the dais. "Approach."

Armand lifted his face imperceptibly and watched as the purple-robed herald moved to the Emperor's side like a silent ghost. He bowed and spoke inaudibly in his master's ear. Armand, whose primary state of being was to be a hunter of information, longed to know what could be so vital that it warranted interrupting His Excellency is this manner.

The Emperor rose from his throne. "Director," he hissed.

Armand's head rose in spite of himself, and he looked upon the most horrifying sight he'd ever seen—the Emperor's yellow eyes blazing out from the deathly pallor of his face, a white hand reaching towards him with one crooked finger extended.

"Do you realize that a group of Alderaanians has fled the refugee camp?"

Armand's jaw fell and he rose to his feet. "No, I—how, my mast—

There was a blinding flash, and a single jag of blue energy leapt from the Emperor's finger, striking Armand in the chest. He staggered, overwhelmed by the pain that fired every nerve ending in his body simultaneously.

"Your failure could cost us this entire operation!"

The pain receded from unbearable to only excruciating, but now Armand found he had no feeling in his left arm. He clutched at it, just as vertigo overtook him and his worldview tilted upward. He tipped over backward, losing consciousness before feeling his body hit the floor.

The Emperor chuckled softly to himself as he waded over to where his chief spymaster lay prone on the Corusca marble tile. "Come now, Director. Had you been a Jedi Knight, I'd have dealt you many times the meager potency you've just received." He came to a stop, standing directly over Armand's torso. "Perhaps intelligence work truly is a young man's game." Palpatine extended his finger downward, and another quick tendril of lightning crackled into Armand's sternum, who jerked at the contact. The Emperor spoke as if rattling off steps in a recipe. "Heartbeat restored..." He then opened his hand fully and closed his eyes to channel the force. "And now to restart respiration…" Armand's back arched violently as he inhaled a gasping breath.

"Ah, you're back, Director."

Armand tried to sit up, but his chin barely tilted forward before he lost all stamina behind the attempt, and was forced to focus all his energies on simply filling and emptying his lungs.

"You suffered a sudden cardiac arrest, my friend. No doubt your utter failure to perform your duties caused more strain than you could bear." He waved at the royal guard contingent flanking the main entrance and two of them broke off and ascended the stairs to the dais. "My guards will see you to a physician, and after a good rest—say, twenty minutes—you will seek to redeem yourself with extreme prejudice by immediately completing Project Ember."

The crimson cloaked warriors each took an arm and pulled Armand up to stand before the Emperor.

"Make the appropriate announcement first thing tomorrow morning. And beyond that, if you should fail again," he said with a smile, "you will die, and live, and die again… many, many more times by my hand."

IV.

Leia entered the dimly-lit conference room at Detritus base. Several other senior commanders were present, all looking up at the wall-mounted view screen with dour expressions.

"Leia, good," Mon Mothma said. "It's about to start."

She sat down and quickly took in the other faces at the table. General Dodonna was seated at the far end, next to Mon Mothma and Admiral Koss. Commanders Willard, Narra and Salm were present as well, amongst others. She was pleased to see that Varica had opted to sit this one out, no doubt realizing that her actions regarding the Luke Skywalker identity leak had made her persona non grata amongst her peers.

The screen showed a wide exterior shot of the Imperial Palace in full daylight with a news ticker running under it. A general title floated across the top, reading 'Special COMPNOR address.' COMPNOR, or the Commission for the Preservation of the New Order, was the Empire's media and propaganda bureau, dedicated to the control of information—and by extension the very culture—of the galactic citizenry. If Alderaan Spirit had been the voice of freedom, then COMPNOR was certainly the voice of oppression.

A newscaster's voice came on. "In breaking news, we have just learned that the special address is being given by Armand Isard himself, director of the Imperial Intelligence Service. We now move to the palace audience chamber…"

Leia sat forward in her chair. She couldn't remember Isard ever making a public appearance before.

The image changed from the palace exterior to an interior audience room, where there was a pulpit stamped with the Imperial sigil. Behind it stood a man they had only seen in still images from his Imperial profile. Isard was a middle-aged man—handsome at first glance, but his chiseled, angular face took on a cruelty that was too pronounced to be attractive. He also appeared tired, as if he were recovering from some ailment. Even still, with his dark features and intelligent eyes, he appeared at once a cultivated intellect and a ruthless killer.

"Citizens of the Empire," he began, "I come before you today to inform you that over ninety-nine percent of the surviving Alderaanians—numbering approximately forty-thousand men, women and children—have been successfully moved to a secure planet, where they can begin their lives anew."

Leia swallowed. Assuming that's true, what does it mean?

"I know that many of our loyal, law-abiding citizens, may be angered by the efforts the Empire has made on the refugees' behalf, given their widely practiced rebel collaboration. Others still may question why Alderaan needed to be destroyed in the unprecedented manner that it was." Isard paused. "The fact is that your government is responsible for the countless trillions of lives inhabiting this galaxy, and as a result, difficult decisions must sometimes be made, and important information must sometimes be withheld. With the Alderaanian refugee population now sequestered in a safe location, His Excellency the Emperor has commanded me to at last inform his people of the entire story of what transpired at Alderaan."

Leia looked around the table, watching as her comrades fortified themselves to endure the poisonous words Isard would now pour into the ears of the masses.

"Alderaan—despite claims of pacifism—had entered into a partnership with the Rebel Alliance terrorist group. The Imperial Intelligence Service, under my specific direction, began surveillance of key figures on the planet, including members of the Alderaanian scientific community. In the course of this surveillance, it was discovered that Alderaan had created a bio-chemical weapon to be used against the Empire."

Leia tried to smile at the absurdity, but the corners of her lips had barely turned upward before tears welled in her eyes. This is absolutely appalling.

"When the Empire confronted the Alderaanian government," Isard said, "and demanded that the weapon be surrendered, it was somehow activated, unleashing a pandemic across the planet that was lethal and highly contagious. The chemical agent was so virulent that the full population would have died within forty-eight hours—not nearly enough time to develop a cure. Furthermore, the agent was designed to last, and could be sustained within the ecosystem for years after the human population had died out." Isard swallowed, his voice heavy with a wonderful facsimile of regret. "To prevent all chances of interplanetary contamination, the Empire had no choice but to completely destroy the planet."

Commander Willard, a fellow Alderaanian, laid a warm hand over Leia's trembling fist. She turned to him as her tears spilled over, running down both of her soft cheeks. Willard, too, had moistened eyes, but he offered her a firm resolution. "This isn't the final word, Your Highness. Our side will be told."

Isard continued. "This information was held back until we could guarantee that the surviving Alderaanians were not carriers—to avoid a general panic. We have achieved this confirmation, and have likewise confirmed that the bio-chem weapon was completely eradicated at Alderaan."

Isard rested his hands at the edges of the pulpit. "Since the horrible massacre of Alderaanian refugees at Commenor some weeks ago, many have been surprised by the revelation connecting the rebels to this vicious attack. Citizens reasoned that Alderaan died as a result of its support of rebel terrorism, and logically concluded that it made no sense for the rebels to attack their allies. In this area, I must limit my comments due to the ongoing efforts to protect the remaining Alderaanian civilians from further attack. But I can say this: Our intelligence showed that Bail Organa was unhappy with the division of leadership in the Rebel Alliance, and was ransoming the bio-chem weapon for a stronger position. The weapon was developed at an off-world laboratory before being delivered to Organa on Alderaan. The scientists who developed the weapon at this remote facility are still alive—and at large. As a result, we believe the rebels are now threatening the surviving Alderaanian population—promising continued attacks—until the scientists come forward and turn over the schematics for the weapon to them."

Leia couldn't physically speak, but even if she could, she didn't trust herself to maintain any semblance of self-control once she got started. She wanted to believe what Willard said—that the truth would ultimately be told to the galaxy. But with the loss of the Alderaan Spirit News Service, there were few avenues open to the Alliance that most citizens would consider trustworthy news sources. At this very moment, millions upon millions sat in their homes, or at their jobs, shaking their heads at the senseless destruction the Alderaanians and the rebels had purportedly brought upon themselves. Even if the Empire fell tomorrow, this twisted version of galactic history would be embraced by countless worlds for years to come—generations, even. She wondered if they could ever un-ring the bell Isard had just struck.

Even with all our momentum from Yavin, we're now losing the propaganda war. We're losing the fight for the hearts and minds of the people, and without that support—even if it just burns silently in their souls—we can never hope to bring the lasting change the galaxy needs.

She found Mon Mothma's and Dodonna's eyes watching her from across the table, and she knew they all shared the same thought.

Something needs to be done. Something defining, that states unequivocally who we are, and what the Alliance represents. An action that declares our ideals so loudly and so irrefutably, that spoken words—lies or otherwise—could never change what we accomplished.

She cast a glance at Varica's empty chair. Her cousin's reason for being—the driving force behind her every thought and every action—was accomplishment. And she held the purse strings to fund that ongoing quest.

It's time for you—for all of us— to deliver.

V.

The Millennium Falcon sat alone on the vast interior hangar deck of a Dreadnaught-class capital cruiser. Han looked down on her from two levels above, in the deck officer's observation post. The cavernous bay stretched on in both directions, each side continuing as far as the eye could see, and then fading into darkness before reaching the exterior hull. That was as much due to the minimal lighting being employed, but there was no arguing that this was the biggest ship he'd set foot on since dropping out of the Imperial Navy.

You could fit a hundred Falcon's in this baby. Easily.

The standard crew for a Dreadnaught was sixteen-thousand men, but it could be crewed safely by a skeleton crew of about two-thousand.

Mako had flown her here with eight guys.

Han continued to peer out of the observation post uneasily. "How the hell did you manage to set sail in this monster with a handful of crewers?"

Mako sat in his wheelchair, looking quite a bit more upbeat than he had in their last meeting. "That's the bonus feature I was telling you about: slave circuitry. The best. You could fly this puppy with two astro droids and a drunken Ugnaught. They don't make 'em like this anymore."

Han turned away from the window and crossed his arms. "Yeah, no kidding they don't. An astronomic error in the Katana fleet's slave system sent two hundred of these things into the void."

Mako waived him off. "Freak event. There are hundreds of Dreadnaughts still in service today and most of them use the slave circuitry to some extent." He raised his eyebrows. "Does your rebellion have two thousand men, fully trained and waiting around to crew this bird?"

Han nodded, conceding Mako's point. "You might be surprised, but I hear what you're saying." He watched as a bouncing shaft of light appeared out in the dark reaches of the hangar deck. Another of his small crew of rebel engineers had returned to the hangar deck. After two full minutes of walking, the engineer finally appeared, large flashlight in one hand and scanning device in the other. When he reached the Falcon's open gangway, he looked up at Han and gave a thumbs up before heading inside.

This ship gives me the creeps. I wish Chewie was here. The Wookiee was once again assisting the rebels with a slave liberation raid.

"Was that the last one?" Mako asked.

"It was."

"Then it looks like your scanning crew found everything in order."

Han nodded again. "It does." Han struck a key on the data pad he was holding, and then held out a hand to Mako, which the other man shook firmly. "Thanks, Mako. The remaining balance was just transferred to your account."

Mako snorted. "My account. If only. But my benefactor will be pleased."

Han cocked an eyebrow. "Percentage?"

"Fee."

"Damn shame."

"Nah," Mako said. "I'm being taken care of."

"Sounds good." Han made as if to say something more—something personal—but then changed his mind. "Well, with any luck, we'll hit you up for another one of these babies later in the year. Revolution is a growth business, you know." He turned to walk back to the Falcon.

"Han."

He stopped and turned back. Mako was looking down at his lap.

"I'm sorry how I came off last time. I was feeling sorry for myself. You were being a friend and I was being a jerk." He looked back up. "Anyway… I'm sorry."

Han grinned. "Bygones, chief." He strode out of the door, calling over his shoulder, "I'll contact you in a few months."

Mako waived goodbye. "Anything's possible."

Still docked inside the Dreadnaught, Han sat in the Falcon's cockpit. He reached over to the comm unit and keyed in the signal. He then turned to his left to watch the patch of starlit space visible though the Dreadnaught's massive hangar door.

The proximity sensor pinged, and a second later, two Gallofree Yards GR-75's flashed out of hyperspace. The oblong transports would land inside the Dreadnaught, unloading hundreds of rebel troops who would become the cruiser's new skeleton crew.

Han would be glad to be off this ship. He was certain it was just the vast, dark emptiness of it that made him so uncomfortable, but part of him questioned whether it wasn't something more. The ship had a history, he was sure, but unlike most pirates and smugglers, Han had never been given to superstition.

He stood up from his seat and headed back towards the open gangway. Unfortunately, he would have to endure this flying behemoth for another two days during its return voyage to Detritus Base. He found the twelve engineers who'd accompanied him on this little jaunt waiting at the bottom of the ramp.

"All set, Captain?" one of them asked.

"Yeah, yeah. Mako's ship just left and our boys are landing any second now. I'll tell you what, though, fellas..." He jerked a thumb up towards the darkened roof of the hangar bay. "I've got a ten-year-old bottle of Whyren's Reserve for the guy who get's these hangar lights going." He turned in a slow circle, noticing again that his line of sight terminated in shadow no matter what direction he looked in. A heavy, metallic creak echoed from deep inside the ship. He and the group of engineers all exchanged a look.

That's it, he decided. I don't care. I'm saying it.

"I've got a bad feeling about this."

To be continued…