There was a flicker of pseudomotion far off the port bow as a Star Destroyer emerged from hyperspace, another come to join the growing swarm of ships massing in the void beyond Kuat's ravaged shipyards. Tarkin was only faintly aware of its arrival. He was lost so deeply in his own thoughts that his eyes were unfocussed, staring sightlessly out into the speckled deep.

Behind him, the Aggressor's bridge was abuzz with activity. Two separate shifts of bridge crew were on-deck, the additional officers helping to coordinate the ever-growing fleet through a dozen field terminals packed into the bridge peripheries and security foyer. While the Empire's strength finally coalesced around him, there was little to do but wait.

Inaction was an eerie thing. Since the engagement over Yavin, Tarkin had been caught in a sequence of mad scrambles; to escape the crippled Death Star, to return to Yavin and retaliate against the Rebellion – with what breathing room he had while en-route to that task spent excising Motti and his influence from the Joint Chiefs. Then had come the hasty summons to Imperial Center; a low tempo sequence of events in and of themselves, but of paramount importance. Then, the literal scrambling of their forces to Kuat.

The entire time, Tarkin's only replenishment had been a short nap during the journey from Imperial Center to Brentaal IV, as that had been the only point at which nothing had urgently required his attention.

He had delayed resting for as long as he could; three long hours of inaction after the battle for Kuat spent keeping wary watch for a possible second wave, or intelligence of a new incident. By the fourth hour, long after the holonet had been restored and reinforcements had started to trickle into the system, Tarkin had finally acquiesced to his body's increasingly strident demands for rest. He'd retired to an unused officer's suite and returned to the bridge alongside the third and first shifts. Now, energised by an admittedly brief night's sleep, he could only wait for the next move – be it Motti's, the Rebellion's, or his own.

How many standard days had it been? Three? Three days to see an unceremonious tumble from the cusp of victory down to the squalid depths of a civil war. Had the Empire truly been in so tenuous a position that such a rapid fragmentation was even possible?

More pseudomotion off the bow. Another Star Destroyer joined the fleet, this one a lonesome Victory class from some small post – likely in the mid rim – that couldn't spare anything more. He wondered how many aboard were traitors, either in earnest or merely in the making.

They now faced a new sort of threat, one where a single subverted engineer could cripple an entire cruiser during the heat of battle. How many rank and file in the navy were malcontent enough that they would throw in with the insurrection if given a chance? And that was only the new threat they faced. While the Empire was figuratively on fire, the Rebellion was out there still; building power, establishing new bases, and preparing for their next attack on the principles of order and stability.

With the upwelling of support for dissident ideologies in the last few days, surely they were already moving to capitalize on the new opportunities it afforded; new connections, new conscripts, new resources. They would make a move soon, he was certain. Tarkin expected something meant to signal offensive capabilities beyond defeating the Death Star. Anything beyond that was unknowable, for the Rebellion had all the wide galaxy from which to carefully select their best target, and all the opportunities afforded by this new internal schism. Fuel depots, shipyards, research stations… there weren't enough ships in the galaxy to adequately guard them all against a full assault fleet, even before accounting for the desertion of entire battlegroups.

Yet, Tarkin had no intention of resigning himself to a purely reactive role. All he'd done since first arriving in the Yavin system was react to one crisis or another, each new calamity seeming to line up behind its predecessor for a turn in the spotlight. Once he'd coalesced enough military might around himself, Tarkin would put an end to that. He intended to take a very active stance indeed.

He would continue the grim work for which the Death Star had been constructed, rooting out and destroying Rebel supporters world by world, with all the brutality that goal necessitated. If the Rebellion was too underhanded to present themselves for their duly earned extermination, he would tear out the necrotic roots that fed them. Even if he never again had the same opportunity to destroy the Rebellion's core that he'd had at Yavin, Tarkin would see to it that that core was rendered powerless; a listless gaggle of malcontents adrift in space with not a living soul remaining that would humour their anarchic aspirations.

First would come Mon Cala, exactly as Tarkin had promised the Ruling Council. He would descend on that insolent drop of saline with the largest fleet the Empire had ever assembled – that he was assembling this very moment – and bombard it until not a single living soul on the planet would dare raise a finger against the Empire again. He would continue for as long as it took to break the Mon Calamari and the Quarren. And if, against all reason, they did not break… then he would continue.

He would utter the command so rarely spoken in the halls of Imperial power – that for the legendary 'Base Delta Zero' – and the bombardment would continue until the planet's endless seas were reduced to vapour. He would turn the planet from an ocean to a desert, and if still some wretched form of life clung to existence on its rocky edifice, he would continue until that desert had been rendered a new, molten sea. If it took that much, he would do it, and rebels watching from all corners of the galaxy would wish their precious shipbuilders could have been granted the quick mercy of the Death Star's superlaser.

Then the Empire's vengeful eyes would fall upon the lofty towers of Chandrila. Without a moment's hesitation, Tarkin would see them slagged to fine lakes of molten metal; the metropolises brought as low as those verdant plains of which the Chandrilans were so smugly proud. He'd burn the forests to charcoal heaps, strip the plains down to dirt clods, and desiccate the swamps until only vast barren mudcracks remained.

It was as he was transitioning to musings on how one might render Sullust any more an inhospitable wasteland than it already was that Tarkin caught himself. His eyes focussed once more, and he took notice of his own reflected silhouette in the bridge viewport; his shade, with whom he had so absurdly argued after escaping the Death Star. The shade's expression was masked in darkness, its emotions inscrutable, but the mere thought brought Tarkin back from the strange abyss toward which he had been careening; a strange abyss of bloodthirsty fervour and frothing rage, born from the same irrational place from which one might find themselves arguing with their reflection.

And so, he stopped. Knowing that yes, he would do all those things and more if need be, but without an ounce of ardour. As much as the recent proceedings of Galactic History since the engagement at Scarif chagrined him, he would not succumb to rage and fury. The calculated, dispassionate exertion of power would – as always – carry the day. How quickly his thoughts had stolen away from him, from rumination on strategies to defang the Rebellion to fantasies of vicious retribution before he had even realized one topic had become the other.

Tarkin turned away from his shadowy reflection, finding the very sight of it perplexingly distasteful. As he made to stroll down the Aggressor's command walkway, he first had to stop for a moment to recognize and step around Admiral Kilian's much-contested command seat. Years of prowling the bridges of Imperial ships so accustomed him to their layouts that he had entirely forgotten the minimalist throne's existence.

He was distracting himself, of course; busying himself with thoughts of the Rebellion rather than their new foe who had now secured a tidy victory in their opening blow against the Empire, and, Tarkin worried – no, he feared what he believed to be the source of that victory. Further speculation without actionable intelligence was, however, pointless, so Tarkin was trying to keep from letting his concerns gnaw away at his resolve.

He cast his eyes over the cluttered bridge. Open equipment crates were stacked against the walls, arranged with other lose modules and a myriad of data patch cables to form makeshift communication terminals. The crew belonging to the first shift attended them, likewise using empty crates as seats. Bridge officers patrolled up and down these new banks of terminals, supervising the coordination of the fleet's growing resources.

Moving down the command walkway, Tarkin sidestepped around another stack of empty crates that were placed perilously close to the edge of the port command pit. A third shift technician seated directly below the looming pile looked up as Tarkin passed, seeming to be keeping tabs on anyone that came close for fear they would knock the precarious collection of ruggedized cases and bury him beneath them. The officer turned his gaze down immediately upon recognizing the Supreme Moff. The whole while his lips never stopped moving, a constant stream of commands flowing into his headset.

As he entered the security foyer, Tarkin once again let his gaze range over the room, searching out Captain Pierson. He found him bent over the shoulder of an officer at the tactical station, examining a map of the Imperial ships entering the system. The captain glanced up at Tarkin's entry, then straightened and approached, stopping with a brisk salute. Despite the appearance of shadows under his eyes, Pierson seemed no less brimming with energy.

"Supreme Moff?" He enquired.

"Captain," Tarkin nodded, turning slightly to indicate back toward the bridge. "There are crates stacked on the central walkway where they might fall into the command pit. It is distracting the crew."

"I'll see to it that they're removed, Governor." Pierson saluted. "Also, we now have a secure connection with the entirety of the Joint Chiefs. They're waiting in the conference room at your leisure."

"Very good." Tarkin gestured his dismissal, and Pierson walked past him into the bridge. Tarkin paused to consult the tactical map, making a rough count of how many ships were now at his disposal. There were sixty ships of any noteworthy size at this point, though over half were only smaller ships such as light cruisers.

Still, it was – by his own recollection – the largest Imperial fleet ever assembled, and growing by the minute. Every new Star Destroyer was an entire militarized system that could be subjugated, and his new, as-yet nameless fleet was bolstered by another four Interdictor-class destroyers, but that was far short of what he needed. He needed enough to blanket a system; to take a hit and run attack and turn it into a retributory massacre. The rebellion couldn't contest the Empire's power in a straight fight, so that was exactly what he would force them into.

But this new insurrection, what of them? When fully assembled, Tarkin's new fleet would surely be incontestable even by their newly acquired dreadnought. An earnest, unreserved engagement between their forces would be a bloodbath comparable to the Battle of Coruscant. The losses would be catastrophic; capital ship casualties in the dozens on either side. Was that the price that must be paid for a return to order? If the insurrection wasn't targeted with extreme prejudice, they would be at liberty to ravage Imperial systems with the same hit and run tactics as the Rebellion – and worse, hit and run tactics that benefited from the massive firepower boasted by Star Destroyers.

Yes, it would be a bloodbath either way, either acute and chaotic or protracted and chronic. Tarkin no longer had a choice in the matter. If he didn't engage aggressively, they would see devastation in hundreds of systems.

It was all happening too slowly. The flow of reinforcements into the system was most aptly described as a trickle when it should have been a stream, a flood. And yet the reason his fleet was growing so slowly was the exact same reason it was being assembled at all: the Empire was in chaos. Orders were being transmitted for ships to rendezvous at Kuat, only for it to be realized later that they had been added to the list of ships that had been subverted by the insurrection. In other systems the extant forces were having to refuse the orders drafting one of their number because another had already deserted, and they no longer had the slack in their numbers to relinquish another capital ship.

That wasn't the end of it, though. There was also a massive and ever-growing "greylist" of ships that for various reasons were categorised as unsuitable for a force to combat the insurrection, and still there were those orders which were simply lost in the aether of space due to a mistake at some point in the chain of communication, a predictable occurrence when the Empire's forces were being reorganized on the largest scale imaginable, though that made it no less frustrating.

And that greylist… would it lead to a blacklist? More purges, like the end of the Clone Wars? Regardless, were there more still that should be added to it? If Tarkin's suspicions were correct, and Thrawn had joined the insurrection, then there were a great many acquaintances and political allies of the Grand Admiral who would now be under suspicion. Tarkin and Colonel Yularen both had strong ties to the Chiss mastermind, though they should be above such suspicions. Others in the hierarchy, though… they could not be so easily vouched for. At this very moment, the Grand Admiral's protégé and former commander of his flagship was being oriented to take up command as Admiral of the Eleventh fleet. Could she still be trusted with that command?

He turned away from the tactical map, feeling an uncharacteristic flutter of nerves in his gut. Thrawn. Could it be true? He only had his own intuition and a memorable utterance from the Emperor to support the notion, and yet it seemed so obvious, so… irrefutable. Perhaps it was merely his ego at play, refusing to believe that he could be bested in tactics by anyone other than the legendary Chiss prodigy, but that was… it wasn't enough. The truth was that, as the harrowing pit in his stomach attested to, Tarkin feared Thrawn – or rather, he feared the implication that the Grand Admiral might have turned traitor. If it was a reflex of the ego to downplay a defeat by laying it at the feet of the greatest military mind the galaxy had seen, then his irrational side likewise should have reflexively denied that the Chiss would set himself against the Empire, for the alternative was having to face him. Yet it wasn't. That side of Tarkin's contributions for the day had thus far only been to concern itself with frivolous daydreams of exercises in extirpative power.

Again, he was letting himself speculate. He should be working to discern the truth, not thinking circles about what it implied if his fears were correct.

Tarkin paused before the door to the conference room, casting his eyes over the two looming Deathtroopers that stood vigil.

The trooper to his left gave the expected report, the words coming out as electronically garbled squalls that resembled their unscrambled origin only in the length of the intonations. With a delay that was only barely perceptible, the implant behind Tarkin's left ear descrambled the sounds into speech that more closely resembled what might come out of any stormtrooper helmet – if significantly deeper in tone.

"Area clear. No potential malicious agents identified."

"Very good," Tarkin nodded. "Maintain observation and report as necessary."

It wasn't a precaution Tarkin had taken before, requesting that his escort surveil ostensibly loyal bridge crew for bad actors – though he understood that doing so was a core part of the Deathtroopers' training where protection of their principle was concerned, even if before now they had never done so at his explicit request. Now, when there was a credible chance that any given officer might have been subverted by Motti's insurgency, such paranoia became not only advisable, but necessary.

Entering the conference room, Tarkin found it a mottle of transparent blue figures interspaced among their very real flesh-and-blood colleagues. The remainder of the joint chiefs were once again fully holopresent, courtesy of the newly restored relay at Brentaal IV. Seating himself at the round table, Tarkin noted that every time they reconvened, they were fewer. When the chance presented itself Tarkin would need to start filling the gaps that had been created; a new Chief of the Imperial Navy to replace Motti was paramount – a role he might have tapped a certain grand admiral for under different circumstances. Less urgently, he required replacements for Sturgist and Molock as the chiefs of navy and army operations aboard the Death Star, respectively. Certainly, though, there was no urgent need for someone to fill those roles while the station was still entirely out of commission.

Bast still lounged in his chair as if he were a king of antiquity upon his throne, but little remained of his previous candour, seemingly having departed alongside Tagge's smug braggadocio. In its place was confusion and – most importantly – subservience. For now, at least, Tarkin's ploy of combining reward and punishment had born the desired fruits.

Perhaps it was the exact framing of it that registered with him, but the following understanding washed over Tarkin like a dark cloud. Pairing reward with punishment could be a powerful motivator indeed, but the stratagem was not of Tarkin's devising. It was merely an idea he had internalised, learned first-hand from the Emperor a mere day before.

He frowned, then set it aside to be further considered later. He'd had time enough to his own thoughts.

"Supreme Moff," Yularen greeted him first, rising from his chair.

"Colonel," Tarkin replied, entirely perfunctory.

"We've had a transmission from Imperial Center, directly from the office of the Grand Vizier." Yularen lifted one hand. "The schematic for your new rank plaque. I took the liberty of having it fabricated."

Tarkin looked down at the colonel's open palm, finding that it held an unfamiliar rank plaque.

Yularen pressed the plaque into his hands. "Congratulations, Supreme Moff. I only wish we could make more of an occasion of it."

Tarkin smiled thinly. The last thing he wanted to do was celebrate being tasked with failure. "No matter. We have more important things to do than indulge the usual pomp and circumstance."

The colonel nodded his agreement and returned to his duties, leaving Tarkin to finger his newly-minted rank plaque as he walked around the table. Surely the pattern had already been designed. Why hadn't he received it before departing Imperial Center? A more cynical part of Tarkin's mind thought that it had been malicious; a subtle obstruction by Amedda with the specific goal of preventing Tarkin from properly exercising his scant extra authority. Reason, however, told him that Amedda's petty sleights were not so pathetic as withholding a rank plaque, and that Maksim would have been just as suspicious of an unrecognized rank plaque. The result would have been the same.

He had exchanged his sextet of blue over dual trios of red and gold for one that was much the same, except that the six blue squares had been replaced by two trios of grey and blue, and augmented his selection of code cylinders had increased from two pairs to the two trios needed for the glut of new super-sector authorizations his position entailed.

It struck him, however, that this new plaque would be unrecognizable to most who saw it. Of course, that it was worn by him – and that most he encountered would know him by name and rank – would make their meaning apparent, but the array of coloured squares on their own were indecipherable aside from the number of them indicating a position of high rank. Most significantly, it did not extrapolate the difference between Moff and Grand Moff to produce the new plaque, but rather went in an entirely different direction with the introduction of the grey squares that were usually reserved for members of the Ubiqtorate subsidiaries.

That was the nature of the Empire's rank system. It was built around esoteric design, where squares of the same colour held different values based on the other squares adjacent to them, and where the number and positions of rank cylinders denoted 'finer' distinctions in rank – some ranks had the exact same plaque and were separated only by their number of code cylinders.

It was a system made deliberately impenetrable to outsiders, where understanding of the values of the combinations of squares and the synergy they had with the code cylinders could only be achieved through long years of exposure, or rote memorization of the many different plaques. Now, though, it struck Tarkin as a system strongly resistant to change – which was a thought that had also come to him when he'd been inducted as the first Grand Moff.

More than that, it obfuscated Imperial authority. Mid-level officers – those most likely to interact with the civilian elements of the empire, and also unlikely to be widely known or easily recognizable by name or face – would find that civilians and corporate entities consistently forgot or incorrectly guessed their ranks. That confusion could lead to obstructions. In other ways it was an asset, lending an aura of impenetrability to Military affairs the helped stoke a public sense of untouchability.

To those in the know, such things were simple – especially the analogous nature of the plaques sported by the different arms of the Empire; grand moffs, admirals, and generals all featured six blue, three gold, and three red squares, though in different configurations, where the admiral and generals were horizontal mirrors of each other. Tarkin supposed the rank of grand commander – if one was ever appointed to serve beneath Vader – would be the vertical mirror of the grand moff plaque. Vader, of course, wouldn't wear any identifiers, but Tarkin presumed that the supreme commander plaque would be a vertical mirror of that of the Supreme Moff.

Finally, he stopped turning the plaque over his hands and made the switch. His old grand Moff's plaque, a partner of many years now. The magnets parted with only a moment's resistance and he found himself holding a plaque in each hand. Identical in weight and construction, differentiated only by slight differences in colour. With the promotion from Moff, the impression had been that the insignificant difference belied the true importance of his new role. Now, it felt like it emphasized just how meaningless the change was.

After a moment's further regard, he slipped the old plaque into his pocket and placed the new one on his breast, the slide snapping into place with a fabric-muffled click. Tarkin felt no different.

He appreciated the absolute dearth of significance a moment longer, then continued as first intended with a brisk step.

"Now…" Tarkin began as he eased down into his seat. "is there anything of significance to be raised before we begin?"

There was silence in the room for a moment, then the hologram of Hurst Romodi cleared his throat.

"Hurst?" Tarkin gestured for him to speak.

"It's hardly a pressing issue, but we face a small problem of… if not organization, then nomenclature," the adjutant began. "Our forces are growing, and there is no precedence for a strategic element of its… its size or nature. Our existing command structures include a theoretical framework for an oversector fleet, though none currently exist. Our current restructuring, however, is set to produce a battlegroup of much larger numbers and scope."

"Does it really matter?" Bast questioned. "A fleet is a fleet."

"And decorum is decorum," Romodi replied. "Or more significantly, administration is administration. All things need a name, and something as significant for continued Imperial stability demands a formal title – preferably one with suitable… say, 'gravitas'."

Bast lifted his hands slightly, palms up in a display of his ambivalence.

"Our best assessment is that this new force should be classified as the 'All Sectors Fleet'. Though such a title hardly rolls off the tongue, nor does it properly capture the nature of the command, given that any fleet not assigned to a specific sector could be given the same name. Perhaps the 'Master Oversector Fleet', but still…"

"Perhaps the issue may be somewhat moot." Tarkin supplied. "A fleet is – by and large – a collection of ships that operate as a single unit. All of the resources at our disposal moving as a single unit would be impractical, to put it charitably. I anticipate that – outside of any particularly energised conflicts – our forces will be manifest as a large central fleet supported by multiple subordinate task forces and squadrons."

"So it would be more appropriate to label it as a 'Command', then?" Yularen supplied. "The 'Supreme Theatre Command', or the 'Imperial Galactic Command', perhaps?"

"The former sounds suitable; uncomplicated, to the point, a touch of grandiosity…" Tarkin nodded. "The latter is best reserved for that time when Imperial rule fully encompasses the unknown regions, wild space, and beyond. For individual tactical units, numbered 'Supreme Theatre Fleets' and squadrons should suffice."

"Yes sir." Romodi nodded. "I'll draft a letter of suggestion for Imperial Centre."

Tarkin briefly considered if such a request was still necessary, but decided that it was. Too many unilateral decisions made to quickly might suggest to the Emperor that he had just given Tarkin free reign to become a despot. Likewise, it was best to submit the name for feedback from the divisions of Imperial High Command best suited to spot discrepancies.

"All this over a piece of nomenclature," he muttered, drawing a snort from Tagge.

Tarkin's eyes flicked over to the High General, who up until this point had been silent.

"Ah, Tagge, yes," He nodded once, watching a hint of concealed regret flit through the High General's eyes. I have some… unfortunate news."

He watched again as Tagge's demeanour shifted entirely. His expression became stony. Doubtless he understood what was to come next

"My apologies, Tagge, but surely you must understand that this turn of events necessitates a change of plan."

Tagge sat rigid, not looking at Tarkin, so he continued.

"I will require the use of the Annihilator. You will have to make do with the Executrix."

"I understand," The general grated out, still unmoving.

"You will find Captain Darc highly competent and ready to assist."

"I'm sure." Each word that Tagge forced out seemed to cost him more.

"And if you should find it in any way lacking, I would expect that you could requisition command of any ship in the fleet." Tarkin paused, the slightest smirk touching at the corners of his mouth. "Almost any ship."

Tagge said nothing, almost seeming to bite his tongue.

"Perhaps, though we could be more flexible. If you so wish, you could remain aboard the Annihilator and coordinate the fleet."

Still, Tagge said nothing, his eyes trained on some detail of the wall panel behind Tarkin. There was a moment where he seemed to physically tremble with rage. A High General being offered what was essentially the duties of a glorified captaincy – or perhaps a vice admiralty – was a slight in and of itself.

Tarkin allowed himself a smile. He'd had his fun, but it was time for the carrot. "But you value your autonomy too much for that, I'm sure. The Command, of course, welcomes you to co-ordinate our ground operations – and I'm sure you will not be deprived of a dreadnought for as long as it seems. I'm sure you could requisition commission one entirely by your own authority… Once you have reached an appropriate station."

There was a long pause in which Tagge seemed to silently, motionlessly collect himself, the action demarked only by a long, slow exhale through his nose that surely was despite his best attempts to be subtle. Finally, he gave Tarkin a single withering look and nodded. "If you're finished, Governor?"

Tarkin inclined his head. "I have offered you all of your options. The choice is yours."

Tagge held the glare steady. "I will, of course, relocate to the Executrix as per your orders, and coordinate the fleet's ground forces from there."

Then came a long pause, during which Tagge broke eye contact and pointedly returned to inspecting his terminal. Tarkin blinked once, and responded only with a simple "Very good."

It wasn't right. He had fully expected that Tagge would take the Executrix and attempt to start building his own taskforce, if for no other reason than to get away from Tarkin. Instead the High General was… cooperating; volunteering for a position that promised little glory.

'He's keeping himself close to hand.' Tarkin realized. 'Still biding his time to step in and take my place.' He was committed, to be sure – likely because to Tagge it seemed utterly inevitable that Tarkin would fall from grace.

He needed to be mindful of Tagge. The man was crafty and as ambitious as anyone else that had managed to reach the upper echelons of Imperial rule. The last thing Tarkin needed was to be sabotaged by the scheming General.

He eyed Tagge a moment longer – who for his part remained pointedly fixated on his work – then decided to move on.

"Colonel Yularen." Tarkin turned to the white-haired deputy director of Naval Intelligence. "When we were in session with the Ruling Council, you enquired after Grand Admiral Thrawn's availability for our new campaign, yes?"

"Indeed I did, Supreme Moff," Yularen nodded. "I believe his particular prowess would be of great assistance."

Tarkin nodded once, as if considering the matter. "By my recollection, you have worked closely with Grand Admiral Thrawn. Is that correct?"

"It is, sir, yes."

"Then you must be aware of the… shall we say, 'persistent' concerns that have been raised regarding exactly where the Grand Admiral's loyalties lie."

Yularen paused, then gave a slight nod. "Indeed I am, Supreme Moff."

"And what are your thoughts on those concerns?"

Again, Yularen paused. His eyebrow raising as he gave a questioning "Supreme Moff?"

"By my recollection, since the esteemed Grand Admiral has joined the empire, his rather… 'enigmatic' background has overshadowed most of his accomplishments, has it not? I'm familiar with your report on the Nightswan campaign. You know as well as anyone that your qualms with Thrawn's motives and tactics were of particular interest to the Emperor."

Yularen hemmed for a moment, before replying with a reluctant "Yes, Governor, that's correct, but my misgivings were quite satisfied by the campaign's conclusion. Thrawn's results were more than satisfactory, and with the benefit of hindsight I found that his methods were no cause for concern."

"I am well aware, but that hasn't stopped similar concerns from being raised during his other significant campaigns. On both his expedition into the unknown regions with Lord Vader and his work on solving the 'mynock problem' for Director Krennic, I understand that his principle companions in both endeavours expressed – in no uncertain terms – that they had frequently found the Grand Admiral's conduct actionably treasonous."

"And I likewise understand that in both cases those concerns were suitably quashed by the time events had run their course," Yularen replied, almost seeming defensive. "As I said, governor, it seems to me that the Grand Admiral's conduct during unusual tactical situations may seem dubious from moment to moment, but are always well justified and fruitful in hindsight."

"So it would seem," Tarkin demurred. "…and yet… the issue remains that Thrawn has repeatedly shown himself to be all too comfortable skirting the edges of treason to achieve his goals."

"And that is the crux of your enquiry, governor?" Yularen afforded a wry smile, but the expression seemed somewhat forced.

"Indeed." Tarkin inclined his head. "Thrawn's repeated flirtation with treasonous methodology, when given due consideration with his current… shall we say, 'uncertain' position in the Empire since his failure to hold Lothal… well, in your opinion, Colonel, would Thrawn be so steadfast if approached to join this insurgency?"

Yularen gave the matter some thought, then nodded.

"I feel confident that if given the choice, the Grand Admiral would remain as steadfast in his commitment to the Empire as any of us. It is my assessment that if – however unlikely – he were to defect from the Empire, it would be to rejoin the Chiss Ascendancy. Nobody as brilliant as Grand Admiral Thrawn would look at something as ramshackle and ill-conceived as this "Emergency Commission" and see it as fated for anything but destruction."

Tarkin nodded slowly, giving the colonel's answer their proper consideration.

By broad strokes Yularen's assessment was much the same as Tarkin's, but he found as little reassurance in it as he had when his own ruminations had reached that conclusion. Rather than finding it a cogent argument that the Chiss wouldn't have joined the insurgency, it left him no less certain that the Grand Admiral had defected, and instead raised the gnawing question of why.

One possible answer was that there was no rational base for the decision; Thrawn's objections to the Death Star – at the point where it was almost exclusively known by the name 'Stardust' – had been numerous and unceasing, far beyond the point where Tarkin had been convinced of its viability. More than that, the funds for his TIE Defenders had been appropriated to aid in its completion.

It was already a volatile mix; Thrawn's lasting disdain for Stardust, bitterness at its encroachment on his own pet project, the seventh fleet's relegation to a punitive remote sector command for almost a full year and counting after his crushing defeat at Lothal. The metaphorical capstone to it all was that the finished Death Star which had been the source of so much resentment for the Grand Admiral had gone on to be promptly defeated had driven the Grand Admiral to becoming a turncoat.

But no. It was too wishful to hope that the Chiss had succumbed to something as antithetical to his character as an irrational emotional decision. So, if Tarkin felt certain that Thrawn had defected, and equally certain that it hadn't been a decision born out of rash emotion, then there remained an uncomfortable question that still needed answering: What did the Grand Admiral knew about the insurgency that made him think it a more viable prospect than the multitudes more powerful Empire?

Finally, he sighed. "And yet, I feel no less certain that he has joined it all the same."

After a long delay in which that train of thought once again ran through his mind, Tarkin finally shook his head. He had no want to express the breadth of his concerns to the others, so he answered only with "As steadfast to the Empire… prior to these last few days, any of us would have said much the same about Motti, and now he leads a crusade against us. To pretend that it's impossible to be driven to extreme action is a delusion."

"My apologies," Bast's hologram finally interjected, bewilderment overcoming the concerted apathy he and his mentor had been projecting. "But just to be absolutely clear, are we to take it, Governor, that you believe that Grand Admiral Thrawn has joined the insurrection?"

Tarkin paused, casting his eyes around the table. The rest of the joint chiefs, both holopresent and otherwise, were observing their discussion in rapt silence. Even Tagge's stony mask has slipped to the point of exchanging concerned glances with Bast's hologram.

"Exactly that. General Bast, Tagge, I know you have never had the dubious privilege of working with our infamous Chiss virtuoso." Tarkin turned to Yularen. "But Colonel, you surely must have seen his hand in the insurrection's tactics."

"I saw some subtle manoeuvring and sleight of hand that worked to the enemy's favour, Governor, but much more than that it seemed that Moff Maksim's insubordination and hunger for glory was what handed the enemy their victory."

"Yularen, you of all people must know that Thrawn's specialty is exploiting the flaws of his opponents to devastating result."

At this, Tagge finally seemed unable to restrain himself from interrupting. "If that's the case, and Thrawn truly is the genius he is claimed to be, how do you expect to be able to succeed where Maksim failed?"

"I have been considering that," Tarkin admitted. "And it is my belief that there is little chance of outsmarting Thrawn's talent for insight."

"It is an almost supernatural ability," Yularen agreed, though he still sounded dubious about the suggestion. "Even when one attempts to act with awareness of his intuition, Thrawn is just as likely to discern when and how they will attempt to outsmart him."

"Indeed." Tarkin inclined his head. "So it is my belief that there are two possibilities. The first is to fracture the command of our forces across so many admirals that Thrawn is unable to keep abreast of all their myriad personalities, but I find the forfeiture of centralized command to be un unacceptable loss. The alternative… is to ignore it."

"Ignore it?" Tagge scoffed. "And just play right into his designs?"

"Not quite. I am, however, of the mind that there comes a point where overwhelming force can defeat any amount of genius. Can you imagine Thrawn's skill to be so miraculous that he could survive against a concentrated assault from a force ten times his number? Twenty times?"

Again, he had to reflect with a bitter sting that the Death Star was meant to be that overwhelming force; a weapon against which open combat was invariably suicidal. Now, due to the alterior motives of a single designer and a gamut of lucky saves for the Rebellion, he was attempting to replicate that overwhelming force with hundreds of Star Destroyers. If that failed too, it seemed his next step would be to deploy a thousand times as many TIE fighters and call that an overwhelming force too.

Tagge, who had next to no experience with Thrawn's prowess for tactics, appeared satisfied with Tarkin's answer. Yularen, on the other hand, seemed markedly less so.

"I wish I had your confidence, Supreme Moff," Yularen said. "But we've both seen what happens to those who underestimate Thrawn."

"Indeed we have. I will not make the same mistake. It's why I am under no delusion that any of us here can defeat the Grand Admiral by our own merits alone. To deal with a threat like him, we must utilise not just overwhelming force, but an unanswerable force." Tarkin found himself reflexively curling his free hand into a fist. "Then the challenge becomes manoeuvring the insurrection into a position where we can bring that force to bear."

"Which will likely prove quite the challenge indeed," Romodi muttered, unconvinced. Tarkin couldn't fault him for it; he hardly had the resolve he projected. He certainly considered himself in possession of a particular talent for command and tactics, but Tarkin was under no illusion that his absolute strengths lay anywhere other than in politics and administration.

Thrawn, in the meantime, was likely immersing himself in holographic reproductions of Eriaduan art, constructing ploys that would exploit Tarkin's cultural blind spots. Could he really combat such a comprehensive understanding of his mind and tactical penchants?

The answer was that – whether he could or couldn't – Tarkin had to. Perhaps he would have an advantage if Motti's insatiable ego demanded that his orders supersede Thrawn's. If the Grand Admiral was effectively held on a leash, or even compelled to follow the orders of another then the balance would be back in the Empire's favour. It astounded Tarkin that a force only five percent the size of the remaining Imperial forces was suddenly transformed into a potentially unstoppable enemy by the addition of a single individual. Was it pathetic to put so much reverence, so much fear on Grand Admiral Thrawn?

Yularen, who seemingly had yet to exhaust his protestations, drummed one hand on the table. He opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it.

Tarkin let his eyes rest on the Colonel, one eyebrow raised, and after some hesitation, Yularen began again.

"My apologies, Governor, but I just don't…" and again he trailed off, abandoning the cause. "But, if that is your belief, then of course you must prepare accordingly."

Tarkin supressed a sigh. Perhaps Yularen was in denial. He was the only other officer present that truly grasped the sheer magnitude of the threat a turncoat Thrawn would represent.

"I shall, of course. The fleet we build to answer a threat like Thrawn will be sufficient to utterly annihilate any lesser foe. That fleet, though, is not building fast enough. Ships of size enough to be any use are coming in at-"

He was interrupted by the pneumatic hiss of the conference room doors opening, followed immediately by the mechanical whooshing of Darth Vader's respirator. The Sith lord stood at the threshold, dark and imposing.

"Lord Vader," Tarkin greeted the Sith Lord. "Good of you to join us. I trust the Maksim situation is… well in hand."

"Moff Maksim requested that I relay his most sincere apologies. He will not be of any further concern." Vader advanced into the room, circling around the table to reach the customary seat he had never once actually taken.

"Very good." Tarkin wondered if Vader required briefing of their conversation to that point. He often seemed well abreast of their discussions well before physically joining them. "We've been discussing plans for our grand stratagem. Most recently, though, Colonel Yularen and I were just discussing the concerns regarding Grand Admiral Thrawn's loyalty." Tarkin paused. "By my recollection, you have worked with him previ-"

"The Grand Admiral is a traitor." Vader interrupted, and the already sour mood of the room seemed to drop to something the equivalent of stone dead.

Though he tried not to show any reaction, Tarkin nonetheless blinked. The Grand Admiral's betrayal had gone from a suggestion to be bounced off the chiefs of staff to an open accusation. For him, that was as good as a confirmation.

He cast his eyes over the others in the room, saw the open alarm in their faces, and sighed. Without ceremony, he thumbed the button on his terminal to cut the holofeed to Yavin. The projections of Bast, Cass and Romodi all fizzled out, and Tarkin turned his attention to the remaining two members.

"Gentlemen, if you would," he waved them off, and after a brief hesitation both Yularen and Tagge stood and exited the room, exchanging concerned glances as they did.

Tarkin held his gaze on the closed doors for a moment longer as he gathered his thoughts, then turned his attention back to the stationary figure of Vader looming at his side. He rose from his seat, datapad in hand, and looked at the Sith Lord.

"You seem quite confident in your claim, Lord Vader. Would you care to elaborate?"

The Sith Lord stood impassive, not speaking.

"Vader…" Tarkin rubbed at his brow. "Our task is monumental. We wage a war on two fronts and every day both foes seem to grow stronger. If we are to succeed, this partnership cannot be built on secrets. If there is something I should know-"

"There is not," Vader cut him off, his tone loaded with finality. Tarkin wouldn't have it."

"Yet I intuit there is information to be had. At whose directive is it to be denied from me? Yours, or the Emperor's?"

After a long pause, the Sith replied with a grudging "My Master's."

"And have you no discretion in the matter?" Tarkin insisted. "So Thrawn has defected, and you know it for a fact, yes? Clearly, you knew of Thrawn's changing allegiance before I could form even my first suspicion, and I am to infer that you were told as much by the Emperor."

Vader said nothing, so Tarkin continued.

"And why? His presence in the Insurgency multiplies the threat it poses. Why, when I am to command the defence against him, was I not given such a vital piece of intelligence? How am I to defend the Empire when I am deprived such crucial information as the knowledge a mastermind tactician has defected to our foes?"

Conscious that his tone was bordering on petulant, Tarkin lowered his voice to a grim, darker shade. "What else am I not being told?"

After a long pause, Vader issues a simple rebuke. "You are told all that you need know to defend the Empire."

Tarkin gave a derisive snort. "Yes, I know all that I need to defend the Empire, except for the threat from which I am to defend it." He looked down at the datapad, then tossed it onto the table in disgust.

"Tell me this, then, Lord Vader, if you would." Tarkin turned back to the Sith Lord. "Is there anything else that – by your judgement – I should know of Thrawn's actions against the Empire? Anything that might impact how we react to these new developments?"

For several long seconds they stared each other down, Tarkin's gaze affixed on his own distorted reflection in the lenses of Vader's mask.

The Sith Lord was unwavering, so Tarkin only shook his head. "Don't keep secrets for secrets sake, Vader." Then he finally averted his gaze. "The first price for those secrets has already been paid; a whole dreadnought stolen to be used against us. See to it that this isn't the first charge of many."

It was outrageous. No, it was farcical. It was an absurd secret kept from he who needed it the most, and when he dared demand a reason for it, he was met with unrepentant stonewalling. Was this how he was expected to defend the Empire?

Finally, the Sith Lord spoke, the barely restrained displeasure in his tone suggesting that Tarkin had only just managed to wring a single drop of blood from the stone. "My master received intelligence of Thrawn's betrayal. That is all you need know."

It wasn't, of course, otherwise they wouldn't have been so reticent to share it. It was a half-truth, if that. What was still being left out? The source of that intelligence, for a start; had there not been even a whisper of a Grand Admiral's defection that would have reached Colonel Yularen's ears first? That was a feat in and of itself.

One thing, though, was that it put things back into perspective. That tone in the Emperor's voice that Tarkin had struggled to interpret now crystallized with this new context; it was chagrin. Thrawn had joined the Empire as a personal indulgence for Palpatine; a novel venture which had proved to yield incredible – if somewhat suspect – fruit.

It also gave him an idea of why Palpatine had been so… if not forgiving, then merciful to Tarkin's failure. In a way, the current state of disarray was now a joint failing of their triumvirate. Tarkin had allowed the Death Star to be defeated, Vader had driven Motti to incite coup against them, and Palpatine had personally introduced a brilliant tactical mind that had gone on to join the new insurrection. Truly, a tragedy of layers.

Perhaps it was only Palpatine's own sense of partial culpability for the catastrophe-in-progress that had spared Tarkin from his unbridled wrath. Certainly, if anything was going to stay the Emperor's – and therefore Vader's – hand, it would be that rather than Tarkin's explanations or Tagge's testimony back on Imperial Centre.

Imperial Centre… that reminded him of something that had been nagging at him in the back of his mind.

"Lord Vader, at the Imperial Palace you warned me against lying to the Emperor. I must know, were you referring to the force?"

The Sith did not reply immediately After a considerable pause, he spoke in a low voice. "We do not speak of such things."

"Really, Vader?" Tarkin frowned, setting down his datapad. "We both know the true order. In fact, we're are among the precious few that do. Must we put up this pretence that we do not? It only serves to obstruct meaningful discussion."

"Now, of all times, you should know to keep such thoughts to yourself."

"That's exactly the problem, though," Tarkin snapped. "The crux of my inquiry. It would seem that I am no longer allowed to keep my thoughts to myself. I want to know why."

The Sith Lord was silent as Tarkin glared at his – as always – inscrutable faceplate.

"What would you do, Lord Vader? Would you ignite your lightsaber and cut me down for acknowledging what we both know? To what end?" Tarkin kept his tone inoffensive and inquisitive. There was, after all, a small chance that the Sith would do exactly that – though he very much doubted it.

"You are not privy to anything the likes of which you speak."

"Dispense with the semantics, Vader. To pretend one could work so closely with you and your master and not see the truth is utter foolishness. I would suggest that you reflect on how long I've been aware of these matters and said nothing."

There was a long moment during which the Dark Lord seemed to be considering Tarkin's words – though more likely, he was internalizing his anger so that it might be redirected toward something more fruitful than ending Tarkin's life.

Finally, the Sith Lord spoke. "Your question, governor."

"As I said, when you warned me against lying, you were speaking of the force." This time, Tarkin did not phrase it as a question. "While we were in conference with The Emperor, I experienced a moment of disorientation, during which I felt compelled to question the truth of my argument."

Vader was silent, so he continued.

"I will not ask the obvious question; I think that we both know the answer. What I wish to know is this: does The Emperor make a habit of invading the minds of his supporters? Do you?"

"I do not," Vader said. "The art of hiding one's thoughts in those of another is..." He paused, and Tarkin detected the suggestion of chagrin in what came next. "…is a skill my Master alone has developed. Only he may truly access the mind of another and experience their thoughts as they do."

"What of your force senses, then?"

"They are but a probe. Less precise. They tell me your emotions; the object of your attention; by broad strokes, your intentions… but not your thoughts. Now, you are angry. You feel violated."

"They don't seem so imprecise to me," Tarkin replied curtly. "I trust that the Emperor will not be so quick to invade my thoughts in the future?"

"My Master's technique is… taxing. It would be impractical to scrutinize your thoughts during your every meeting. You have nothing to fear unless you fail him again," Vader said. His voice was as stoic as ever, but Tarkin still believed that there was an edge in it to match his own. "If such a time comes, however, I doubt you will be granted the privilege to explain yourself again."

"It was a privilege to have my mind invaded, was it?" Tarkin's frown deepened. It was just like a Jedi – or a Sith – to think this way. When sensing the emotions of others was not only routine, but an empathic reflex, the privacy of the mind lost its sanctity. It was a fundamentally different way of viewing life that Tarkin couldn't stomach. Not among allies.

Tarkin stopped, one hand resting on the back of his chair. There was more to be said, of course – much, much more – but he had already pushed too far, and Vader was not a man known for his endless patience, nor his tolerance of those that questioned his authority. Tarkin may hold a privileged position in Vader's good graces, but even did not give him perchance to berate the Sith Lord.

He looked back at Vader, electing to change the subject for now. "We shall be relocating to a new flagship in due course."

"Tagge's dreadnought," The Sith replied. Not a question. Truly, how much of the Joint Chiefs discussions was he aware of through the force, and from how far away could he sense them? Perhaps this was merely intuition. No, of course he was sensing 'the object of Tarkin's attention'.

Tarkin nodded, wondering if there was even a point speaking to Vader when it seemed just thinking in his general direction should suffice. "We need something that can stand against the insurrection's new acquisition. Tagge has been so good as to volunteer the Annihilator… under duress, of course."

"And what do you propose as our next course of action?" Vader asked.

Tarkin smiled slightly, the mental image of a fleet of destroyers carrying out a savage Base Delta Zero again running through his mind. "The sparks are struck, Lord Vader. The fires are burning, and they yearn to coalesce into an inferno. We can hardly snuff them all before then, but if we are considered in our response, we may at least control the spread. If we stamp down on signs of rebellion in the core and Inner Rim, then we will have a secure footing to hold back the waves of dissidence that seem to constantly flow from the outer rim."

"Then the mid rim will be a bloodbath."

If Vader expected him to deny it, he would be disappointed. "Not all of it, but managing a wildfire requires a firebreak. Hyperspace lanes through the Mid Rim are our best candidates without pushing into the Outer Rim itself – though we will do so with gusto once we are good and ready to stamp out these Rebels."

Vader was silent for several seconds before responding. "The Emperor demands results. He will not be pleased with such defensive inaction."

"Lord Vader," Tarkin paused, then sighed. "We have our duty, and if the Emperor wishes to see success then it must be understood that not every moment can be one of stunning gains. If we constantly push forward we will find ourselves overextended, isolated, and defeated. It follows that our movements must be more sensible, more considered than that, even if they are less spectacular.

Vader seemed to regard his plea for some time. What he said next was of no comfort to Tarkin.

"My master is concerned with penance. It is up to you whether that is by victory and redemption, or failure and punishment."

Tarkin gave it some thought, and though he could identify the underlying truth in Vader's words – the thought being one he himself had come to believe moments after his reprieve had been granted – now it seemed… insufficient; lacking context.

"I think, Lord Vader, that there is something more." Tarkin said. "Before our last engagement, I would have agreed with you quite readily, but not anymore."

Vader's head shifted slightly as he scrutinized Tarkin, but the Sith Lord did not speak, so Tarkin continued.

"I do not believe the Emperor is as unconcerned with our pathway to penance as you think."

And he let it hang there. He dared not speak the rest, especially not to Vader – though the Sith must understand his meaning.

Palpatine had not spared Tarkin for some noble-minded idea of lasting allegiance, or out of some egalitarian notion that they were all culpable for the Empire's dire predicament. It was out of necessity, born from the reality that their predicament was so dire.

For all his attempts to hide it, it seemed obvious to Tarkin that Palpatine – their confident, ever-prepared Emperor – was worried, perhaps even afraid for the Empire's future.

And he likewise felt certain that if Thrawn hadn't deserted his post and joined the Insurrection, Tarkin never would have left the Imperial Palace alive.

Author's Note: Yes, that thing I said I do not want to do, but I owe an explanation for why this took so long:

Unfortunately, I've fallen victim to the biggest flaw of serialization. In a properly structured story, not every chapter can be a 'wham' chapter that pushes the story forward and ends with a meaty cliffhanger, but in a serialized story there is pressure to not upload a chapter that is more utilitarian, or used to provide narrative breathing space.

So I wrestled with this chapter for a long time. I hate to admit that it sat in a state of being near-complete for almost 3 months before I came to terms with the fact that it just wasn't going to be as gripping an entry as the others. So it sucks. Sorry about that.

On the other hand, I have spent some more time writing future scenes. There is now about 20,000 words of material concerning major future plot points and the story's conclusion. As I have done previously, this author's note will be deleted by the time the next chapter goes up. I really don't like these things cluttering up the story. For now, Happy New Year, and I hope you're all able to find entertainment in something Star Wars related this holiday season.