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Chapter Text

Krennic had only stood in the Emperor’s throne room a handful of times. He had implied he had been there frequently, of course, with winks and nods and smug smiles, a hand on a sycophant's wrist, the insinuation. In Coruscant, in the upper echelons of the senatorial class, subtext was often enough.

If he came out of this alive, he did not plan to include this particular incident in his implications. After all, he told himself, it was not like he was standing.

When he had woken to chilly consciousness after Scarif, stunned and bloody and bruised, it had been to a featureless white cell, bright lights burning down on his bare head. They, the mysterious savior, whomever had dragged him here, had dressed his wound but left his uniform alone, with all the blaster fire and ash staining its pure white. 

The only thing they had taken was his rank plate. The absence of the six stacked bars left an echo on his left breast, a perfect outline of black to reveal the rectangle of pristine white linen below. 

It was an affront, an insult of the highest kind. He had railed against its removal in his head, building arguments into grand speeches into his head. It occupied him for just over a day, and when he had it perfect, he realized no one was coming for him. There were no inquisitors, no truth extractors, no one from internal affairs, no figures in black or red stalking outside of his cell with death in their eyes and quiet questions on their lips. This was his fate: to be forgotten.

He railed against that in his head a little, too. And then, when they came: lacquer red and helmeted, Krennic deeply regretted wishing to be remembered.  

The guards had dragged him to a turbolift, the longest and potentially last lift of his life, and upon their exit, thrown him to his knees, and that was where he stayed, staring at the grey floor and remembering what it was like to stand in front of the Emperor rather than grovel.

When the whisper-black of a robe rustled past him, moving to where he knew the throne to be but could not force himself to stare, it came with the fear: that throat-clenching aura that clawed over his skin like a rakghoul, hungry and licking and seeking. Always before Krennic had welcomed it; it was an honor to be in the Emperor’s presence, to hear his words, to serve.  

He did not think this was going to go well.

The slow footsteps came to a stop in front of him. 

“How long?” The words were snarled out, cutting into the thick silence of the room until it bled.  

“I–” Krennic attempted, only to find the sound stuck in his throat. He cleared it with an uneasy cough. “It has been a few days, your excellency.”

“Do not waste words with me, Krennic. We are here to plumb the depths of your failures. How long did you know?”

Everything he might say would be weighed against him, cast onto a scale. Was it worse or better that he had no idea what the Emperor thought he knew? If he admitted his ignorance, would that be seen favorably or would his list of failures now include ineptitude? It was his job to know everything. Krennic wet his lips with his tongue and tried to tightrope his way across a line of lies. “I had discovered Galen Erso’s message the day before landing on Scarif.”

“Grand Moff Tarkin discovered that,” came the cutting response and in the Emperor’s tone now was amusement in addition to the scorn. 

Krennic tried not to let the name rankle him, tried to hide his disdain for the thin beak of a man who had stolen his weapon, stolen his accomplishments with a handwave. He was sure he had concealed his contempt, just the merest flare of his nose, just the slightest clench of his jaw–

“You do not approve of the Grand Moff.” 

“It is not my place to approve or disapprove of my superiors,” Krennic said automatically, and in that moment, he believed it.  

“How charming. You will be delighted to know he is dead.”

That was news. Krennic raised his head from his bowed position in shock and found the Emperor staring back at him within a black hood, white and wrinkled pasty skin webbed and sunken and somehow wet. His eyes shone yellow and malevolent down upon him, and they burned into Krennic’s, into his soul. 

The brief glimpse was enough: he returned to staring at the floor. “How–” he began, before falling silent.

“Yes, we are here for me to report to you.” The disdain was back. “Tarkin is dead. Yularen is dead. Motti is dead. Two million Imperials, billions of credits, decades of work–the Death Star is destroyed. Explain how I am not to lay this failure at your feet, director.”

For a brief, rebellious moment, Krennic thought he was indeed here to be reported to, and he clutched the scraps of information tighter and tighter, squeezing them until they made sense. They did not, not ever–destroyed? his weapon? even if Erso’s daughter had sent the plans, how? and then and then he saw the thread, the thing he could pull on that could be his salvation. 

For why was he here, alive, if this was his fault? He had been acting to protect the Death Star, tracking down the contents of Erso’s message. He had been fighting against the insurgents while Tarkin had stood on the bridge of his ship, used it. It was Tarkin who had failed, not him.  

The only thing the Emperor truly cared about was results, and he had provided them, for years, for decades. “Your excellency, my last actions on Scarif were spent tracing the contents of Erso’s message. I am sure had my discoveries been given the weight they deserved, had Tarkin not operated the weapon again before it was analyzed, had secrecy been–”

“That is yet another of your failures, director. Delays first, then leaks. Under your watch, a pilot defected, leading the insurgents to Scarif; the plans for the Death Star beamed from the surface.” 

The words struck at him with a dark finality. He had truly failed, then. The last memory Krennic had of his time at the top of the tower was the wind whipping at his cape, the snarl on Erso’s daughter’s face, and then the acrid smell of a blaster bolt from behind; there had been someone else on the tower. His shoulder throbbed at the reminder, the bandage hiding his injury itching. 

Krennic tried again, although each word had to squeeze through a throat constricted by fear. It was the only thing he could do. “There is a way to turn this disaster to our advantage, your excellency,” he said slowly. “The insurgents on Ghorman were given a victory as well, and that did not go as they hoped.

“Then, we needed them to reveal themselves. I see much the same here. Your excellency: let the mice come out. Let them take bites of us, slowly, surely. We will stand still, and endure it. Let them feel safe; let them feel secure; let them bring in their friends, until all are revealed, all the Empire’s enemies in one place. This will not be our end, but theirs.”

Save for his heart beating so loudly his chest, not a sound or a reply echoed in the large room. Krennic closed his eyes, waiting; all his dice had been cast. It took interminably long. 

Finally, the Emperor spoke, and his voice was not angry, but pensive. “And the trap you propose?” 

Krennic opened his eyes, and raised his head, meeting the eyes of his Emperor without fear. “I will build you another.”

Chapter Text

His desk at headquarters was just as he had left it. In a way, it was insulting; no Imperial Security Bureau internal affairs agents rifling through his papers; no overeager would-be scavenger sorting through his datachips; his life’s work, and it was destined to be forgotten.

Not that Krennic had left anything there truly worth discovering. His hands stretched out before him, fingers lightly tracing the top of the wroshyr wood desk, following the whorls and knots in the grain, as he always did when he was thinking. This particular slab had been felled from one of the great trees of Kashyyyk during the early days of the Empire, and he had purchased and imported it at great expense the day he had been named director and given his mandate.

The burnished chestnuts and umber sables of the finish brought out its beauty, and here, it was his alone to marvel at. The often uncultured subordinates who sat across from him had no idea what it was, or what it was worth.

A heavy sense of foreboding hung over his head like the executioner’s axe; the promises he had made to the Emperor–was that just yesterday?–felt impossible, unobtainable.

“Year by year,” he whispered to himself, seeing in the wood’s rings the passage of time. Some were wide; telltale signs of years of plenty, of great wealth and growth. 

He was in a skinny year this year to be sure; drought, stress, destruction. But the years of plenty would return, and Krennic would still be there.

The chirp of his desk’s comlink interrupted his thoughts. “Sir, you are summoned to ISB high command,” buzzed the all-too peppy voice before it clicked off without waiting for a response.

Summoned, like a cadet about to get his knuckles rapped. Krennic felt his left eyelid twitch.

There was no use for it; he had to go. He stood, the chair scraping against the floor, and strode out the door, and down through the hallway. He did not rush, taking slow, measured steps and watched in satisfaction as the path before him cleared. 

It was more heavily guarded by twitchy security officers than normal. Few active directors kept offices on this floor, and even he rarely visited his at Coruscant, despite outfitting it in the opulence he deserved. The great meeting room where the ISB leadership met regularly was conveniently just up one level, and a double set of gleaming marble stairs.

When he stepped inside the wide white room, awash with bright lights and sterile, clean stares, the door hissed closed behind him with a cool snap.

There were far fewer faces around the crescent-shaped desk than Krennic had anticipated, and one he was decidedly not expecting. The tightly pursed lips and ice chip blue eyes of Chief Interrogator Renn Haas stared down at him from the seat beside Deputy Director Rennax Brend, whom he had assumed would be present. While Colonel Yularen had perished on the Death Star, Brend was a clear candidate to step into his shoes, and from his position at the center seat, he had seized the chance.

Krennic felt his throat dry a little with anticipation; power vacuums were always fun times at the ISB, and so many had perished in the last week.

On Brend’s right, two more familiar faces, and far friendlier ones, met his gaze as he entered: the blonde mop of Director Tyria Korlis, the division head of Enforcement, and the mustached Major-General Vel Vassyl of Internal Affairs.

Krennic ducked his head in welcome, and moved to take his seat. 

“Stand for now,” Brend said sharply.

Krennic did not stop for even a moment. “Surely you jest,” he said, putting a mocking edge to it, and pulled out the chair next to Korlis. He leaned back in it, his hands on his thighs rather than before him, and gave Brend a slight smile. “Things haven’t changed that much in a week.”

“The entire galaxy has changed,” replied Haas, whose snake eyes had tracked Krennic’s movement with not a hint of his thoughts revealed, not a single wrinkle on that expressionless face. “Thanks to your failures.”

“You may set those firmly at the feet of the late Grand Moff Tarkin,” Krennic replied mildly. “If these horrific events were in fact my error, would I still be here?” What hatches first, the mynock or the breach? The argument against Tarkin had worked before the Emperor, in a way, and history is written by those who are alive to tell it. If he repeated this often enough, it would become truth. Krennic’s restored insignia plaque felt somehow heavier as he spoke the words.

“It was your department, Orson,” said Korlis. Perhaps he had misjudged her friendliness; there was a decided chill to her tone.

“It is my department,” he corrected her, then waved a hand at the empty room. “Are we not to wait for Dorn, or Pellan?” The former oversaw Investigations; the latter, the Imperial Senate division. 

“You are that out of the loop?” said Brend. “There is no more Senate; Pellan’s department has been reassigned to be beneath Haas. As has Investigations.”

A week. He had been gone a week. Krennic kept his smile on his face. “Anything else I should be made aware of?”

“Enforcement is now Counter-Insurgency,” said Korlis, tapping her slim fingers on the table in front of her in a staccato. “It’s just us at high command now.”

Brend smiled like a knife. “And we’ve yet to determine what your role here will be, since the weapon you’ve spent twenty years building just blew up.”  

“The Emperor has commissioned a new one, deputy,” said Krennic flatly, stressing Brend’s title. “I’ll need resources, access, staff–”

“You’ll need to come clean,” snapped Haas. “I’ve tracked your security breaches, and they led us here, to evaluate your worthiness. I have personal great doubts as to your military readiness to lead Weapons Research in the future.” 

It was an echo of Tarkin’s taunts on the bridge of the Death Star, the only time he had been able to see it fired above Jedha, and it was enough to turn the smouldering fires of irritation into a burst of anger. “Haas, do not try me,” Krennic snapped. “My role was to construct the weapon–everyone here was responsible for protecting its secrecy. The leaks, the botched capture of Axis, the squabbles within Investigations–”

“For the sake of Imperial Unity, you will hold your tongue.” Until now, Vassyl of Internal Affairs had not spoken, but now his mustache was quivering above that thin lip with outrage. “Brend, Haas, enough of this–I have already cleared Krennic’s file. The Emperor has given us his orders, given you his orders. We should work together to achieve it, not bicker like children or vulture droids circling prey.” Vassyl pushed out his chair, scraping it against the floor as the legs screamed in outrage, and stood up to every inch of his squat, square form as he planted his palms on the table in front of him. “Give him the news already, and let us get back to work. There is too much to be done and not nearly enough hours to do so.”

“Very well.” Brend’s lips twisted in annoyance at the outburst. Across the table, Haas’s composure had finally broken, with thunderclouds darkening his blue eyes to storm grey. “The Emperor has given us new orders, and all of ISB’s resources will be focused there. Korlis’s leadership of Counter-Insurgency will be our focus, and Haas’s new combined departments of Investigations and Interrogation will support. This is our new mandate.”

“And what about Weapons?” asked Krennic. “I cannot build a new Death Star without credits, or support. We don’t need to hide my funding from the Senate any longer.”

“The Emperor wants a full accounting of your losses before sending you a decicredit more.”

Inwardly, Krennic raged, outwardly: “Of course,” he said reasonably. “I will present him with my findings immediately.”

“Not quite,” said Haas, that self-satisfied smile hovering on his lips. “You will present it to us, and we will. You are no longer on the high council.” 

Control of information meant control of the narrative; losing that, if only for a moment, implied a precipitous slip down a steep sliding slope that would lead, inevitably, back to that sterile cell Krennic had awoken in just a few days prior. Every instinct screamed at him to resist, to argue, to fight back.  

But this was not his first shakeup at the ISB. Krennic had weathered nearly two decades in the Empire, clawed his way through the ranks, proven himself time and time again. He had made himself indispensable, earned a reputation of a man of action, of efficiency, of power.

And there was always another way. “I serve at the Emperor’s pleasure,” he replied, and smiled. It did not reach his eyes.

–––

He visited Korlis first, hovering outside her office with dreary smiles at the armed officers outside until her nervous deputy came out to usher him inside.

Krennic took the low-slung seat opposite her at her desk without asking, and sighed. He had only seldom been here, preferring visits on his own turf, and her office was comparably far more cluttered and lived-in than his sterile perfection–shelves stacked high with knickknacks and datacards, even a row of paper volumes of the Imperial Military Codex from the academy, gathering dust.

This room, like all the director’s offices, had no windows; both for their protection and so time felt endless. He wondered idly how often she had slept here; his own office had a cot in the back, and a stack of stims. 

“This is your own fault, Orson,” Korlis said. Her hands were folded on the desk in front of her. “I can’t help you. You’re going to have to dig out of this one by yourself.”

“Information is help,” he said plainly, then shrugged. “Even if it’s gossip.”  

She snorted. “You know I don’t indulge.”  

“Of course you do not,” he said, and waited. They had been deadly rivals in the Academy, each scoring top marks in their respective tracks; his, science, hers, psychology. Only much later had their working relationship become cordial, and then into something that resembled friendship.  

A sigh. “You are incorrigible, you know that.”

“You don’t like him either,” Krennic said, leaving out who he might be. There were plenty of hes, here at ISB, and that he had never indulged in the casual misogyny some of his peers flaunted had gone a long way to building bridges to Korlis, who noticed everything.  

“Brend isn’t long for that chair,” she said bluntly. “The Emperor met with him after the Battle of Yavin, just once.”

Pieces to the puzzle fell into place: the ISB was still in play, deputy director Brend would remain in that role, an unimportant blip in succession, just warming the seat until the new director would be named. And then he would be even more irrelevant.

“Haas? You?” he guessed.

“In this boy’s club? I have a fancy new title, Orson, and quite a lot to accomplish with the insurgents now so bold.” 

Krennic noted she did not answer his query on Haas’s name.

“This has been illuminating,” he said, pushing back the chair to stand. “We should do this more.” 

“Orson,” she said disapprovingly. “You did this to yourself, you know. You had a protector in Colonel Yularen, he let you do anything you wanted; you got him killed. You dragged Major Partagaz into this mess, and he was your strongest supporter in Investigations; and now Haas has his fingers all over it. I have to protect myself, you know.”

“I know,” Krennic told her, and he did. He took the weight of those deaths back to him to his office, where he sat in silence for a rare, indulgent moment, remembering what it was like to be back at the Academy, and how the simplest words of praise on his assignments from then-Instructor Partagaz had meant the world.

And then he tightened his jaw, and went to work.

At first review, the deaths and losses were momentous: Scarif, Eadu, the Death Star. Each took a bite out of his portfolio, larger and more substantial, stole not just lives but information, knowledge, resources, his power. He breathed easier when reviewing the contents of the Ghorman warehouse, and scowled at the blinking lights that indicated the kyber crystals in storage were insufficient.

One last favor from the past, from the late, unmourned Grand Moff Tarkin, he thought with annoyance, despite it being good luck. Jedha still existed; just the Holy City had been destroyed. The crystals could still be mined.

Even the prison camps building the parts were still largely operational; cautiously, he sent out orders to resume work, and smiled grimly at the lights that indicated message acceptance.

First the report, then the funding; but knowing what he could push forward without waiting was key.  

Which was why, after reviewing the names of his direct reports that still lived–and there were so very few, and regrettably his most reliable had all been onboard–Krennic opened a channel to Major Tiaan Jerjerrod.

It was a stroke of luck that Jerjerrod had not been aboard; he had been assigned cleanup at Eadu’s facility. The slim lieutenant had begun on the project as an architect, but his true merits were in the ruthless organizational skills and single-minded purpose that drove those under his command, and had just received a recent promotion.  

That narrow face stared up at him now from the hologram projected at his desk. “Director Krennic,” came the blurred, slightly fuzzy voice. “It’s not good news here.”

“Report anyway,” Krennic snapped, irritated immediately. 

Sadly, Jerjerrod’s initial assessment of ‘not good’ held water: the scientists of Eadu were all deceased–that one was on him–and the records of their work had been badly damaged in the attack. 

“The facility underground survived the insurgent attack undamaged,” Jerjerrod continued. “We’re beginning to dismantle it–”

“–on whose orders?”

The hologram fuzzed out again, or perhaps the Major had taken a beat. “General Tagge’s, sir. He claimed jurisdiction after Grand Moff Tarkin’s death; he invoked emergency protocols and assumed Moff-level control. It's legal, barely. No one’s challenged it yet.”

Rats, all of them–snarling and biting and sniffing in where they sensed weakness. Krennic added Tagge’s name to the list of his opponents. “You are to keep the facility intact,” he ordered Jerjerrod. “Give me an assessment by the end of the day about what is needed to construct a second firing device, and begin what work you can with the resources at hand.”

A pause. “Yes, director. I will send General Tagge to your office.”

Krennic clenched his jaw. “Quietly, major. Quietly.” 

He cut the hologram’s feed and stared at the empty space, brooding, sensing and weighing connections, wondering which of his many enemies would come for him first. Tagge, possibly; the few times he had met the general, he had been outspoken against the centralization of military power in what would eventually become the Death Star. It was not a new argument, nor was it entirely incorrect, but as Krennic had hung his flag on its creation, they were directly opposed.

Mas Amedda? The blue-skinned Chagrian was no more than the Emperor’s mouthpiece, but if Krennic had been cut off from meeting with the Emperor directly, he would need to wine and dine the smarmy politician.

Even Tarkin would haunt him. Loyalists to the deceased Grand Moff would rankle at Krennic’s casting of him as a failure, and seem to reflect that ill light back his way. Krennic tapped his fingers on his desk, and wondered how many of them still lived; surely the most sycophantic of them had been aboard. It would be a blessing.

All this would fall into place if he sat in Brend’s chair, he told himself. It would be that slithering interrogator Haas he would need to undermine first.

Haas, who now led Investigations and Interrogations.

Krennic leaned back in his chair, and pulled up Dedra Meero’s file. 

Chapter Text

The cycles were endless. The third was the worst; that was the day that at the end of her shift, she had recognized in herself that faint, contented feeling of satisfaction of a job well done. Everything went smoothly; tubes snapped together quickly and efficiently, her floor manager gave her an approving nod, and Dedra’s breath caught. 

She had always followed orders well. 

When the lights went out on that third day in the women’s prison, Dedra permitted herself just a few minutes of crying, full body sobs that echoed in the white hallway. She had not bothered to learn anyone’s name; surely, surely ISB would review her file; surely, surely they would recognize what a mistake they made to cast her aside; surely, surely someone would come.

One hundred and eighty heartbeats later, she raised a tearless face to the blank wall and stared it down in defiance. 

It was a chilly affront to be sent to this place, this particular prison. Dedra had recognized in its cogs and shapes signs of the project that could not be named. What use were all her secrets, her schedules, her surveillance here? She was deemed not just unimportant but toothless. The rough villains she had been placed with were no Imperials, and she had wisely left her own origins that out of her muttered introductions. 

They were not like her. She was here by error; they were here, surely, because they deserved it.  

So she waited. Cycles blurred together into rotation blocks and she lost track in a blur of missed hours and interrupted sleep, and nothing changed save the number of shifts she had left to work. Dedra knew enough to suspect that was a lie; the Empire never threw away something it could repurpose. 

Eventually she learned the names and stories of the six other inmates at her table: Voss, from Coruscant, who took a walk out of her apartment past curfew; Reem, from Corellia, whose supplier gave her repurposed military parts and left her to take the heat; Vrenn, from Lothal, who complained in public about water rations; the indigo-skinned Pantoran, Yarrow, who failed to catch a missing cargo crate during inventory; Marrik, who when asked admitted to doing nothing at all, would not give her home planet, and just snarled; Dinn, the only Imperial at the table and openly bitter about it, who gave her team a ten-minute break during a heat wave. It lowered output by 2%, she said, and kept her fingers moving on the table. Dinn was always the quickest to assemble her pieces. 

Dedra told them she had been fired unjustly, and left it at that.

She was good at this work; fast, quick hands at the commdesk had prepared her for dextrous duties. But it left her mind free to wander, and spiral. She kept replaying the final day at ISB through her head, how she had so confidently gone down to confront Axis, how she had watched as his blood had seeped out of his side from his self-inflicted wound, how she was so, so slow. This one time. 

She ran the data over and over and over and eventually even Dedra had to admit that it might have been an error to go in alone. It had been simple hubris; perfectly understandable. Of course Axis was her capture. Surely Major Partagaz would have praised her, had she brought in those puzzle pieces to him in private. He liked puzzles. He would have understood why she had to continue picking at this secret.

When it finally happened, when the troopers came from her, her tablemates stared at her in mixed compassion and fear as she was removed from the floor. Dedra held her head high and did not meet anyone’s eyes as she exited, wrists cuffed in energy binders.

She was so sure they were about to free her, to say that this was all a mistake, that when she was dumped into a holding cell and left there for hours, it caused her to spin all over again, to doubt, her hands squeezed together awkwardly in her lap as she sat. It reminded her of being forced to sit in a corner for being excitable, just barely a toddler. She had cried much more, then. 

But when Director Krennic walked in behind her–she would recognize those slow, foreboding footsteps chewing every second like scenery–it felt like she had never left the interrogation that had broken her. 

This time she did not know why he was here, not really. 

His cloak whispered as he stalked around her, then stopped to stare downwards, a gloved hand at his chin.

This was worse than before; before, she had the weak, transparent shield of her rank insignia, before, she had information, before, she was an Imperial, not a prisoner. That was not right. She was still an Imperial, she corrected herself, and lifted her head just a bit, to meet his gaze.

Perhaps she imagined that slight smile when she did so. 

“Once again your failures have brought me to the depths of where dignity goes to die.”

She did not answer, and he raised an eyebrow in amusement. “No quip? No ready complaint? No accusation of ineptitude set at the feet of another agent? Have you finally realized your role in all of this?”

Dedra felt her mouth tug downward even as her mind raced. There was a mystery here, she knew it, felt it. What did she know that he did not? What had he missed, what could she still provide that might unlock this cell, how could she convince him–

“I told you once you were easy to read, Meero.” The chill in his words stiffed her back further. “There’s nothing you can tell me that I do not already know.”

“Why are you here, then?” she snapped back. “It’s quite a distance to come to gloat.”

“Gloat? There’s nothing to gloat about. Luthen Rael is dead. Kleya Marki slipped the net. Tell me why you think I am here.” 

There were so many questions she could spin out of those scraps he dangled before her. “Sir,” she said. “I don’t know anything.”

Director Krennic had that curl of his lip out in the open, now; Dedra hadn’t imagined it. But it wasn’t a smile. “There is a chasm between knowledge and information; a true shame that you have only come to that realization now. Your scrounging put more than just the ISB at risk; it threatened the security of the entire Empire. It brought down titans; destroyed decades of work; ruined me. How lucky you are, to sit in this cell, rather than face your crimes as you deserve.”

“You are here to gloat, then,” she said.

“There is no point.” His jaw clipped out the words as his hand dropped to his side, gloved hands flexing a little, as if he wanted to do something with them but could not. “I have said it already: you are quite lucky, Dedra; and for your sake I hope that streak continues. I am here to make you an offer.”

Her mouth formed the shape of the words yes before her head connected with it, with whom she was dealing, and how much worse things could be than this simple, white cell. 

He had caught that flash of hope behind her eyes, how could he not? Krennic continued, her acceptance assumed if unvocalized. “In the next week, perhaps two, you will be contacted by someone at the ISB,” he said. “They will want to know all about you, and Major Partagaz, and me. They will be particularly interested in me.

“You will tell them everything you know,” Krennic continued, his eyes boring in hers. “Every scrap of information; every scavenged missive. If you play your role well, and you are the good Imperial, they will give you your place back.”

There were too many questions not to interrupt. “How?” she asked, and it was not a simple one: her failures had been documented, her detainment public. 

Krennic’s jaw worked slightly, as if the words he were about to speak were sour. “It was a joint effort, these files you collected. The true traitor was higher up; he told you where to look, what to gather, who to speak to. And to hide his tracks further, he set this Jung into action. A pity that you took the fall for Major Partagaz,” he said. “The truth of it was in his files, just uncovered now.” 

“He did not–”

“–do I misunderstand after all? You wish instead to stay in this cell and rot?” Krennic said scornfully. “Have I so misjudged you, again, and you do not wish to atone? Failures can be framed, they can be molded, they can be changed. But there must be someone in charge, and for this to work, it won’t be an ISB clark.” 

A silence fell in the room, save for the slow footsteps of Krennic as he paced in front of her. He was not even studying her anymore, entirely convinced of his own pitch, knowing she would bite at the hook, scrabble desperately to climb back onto the endless ladder.

“Don’t pretend your tongue is stilled now, Supervisor Meero. I am making you an offer that no one else will even think of making. No one needs to come; Major Partagaz’s legacy could remain unstained.” Krennic’s lips tightened. “There are other ways. But none involve you. So: if you want to see anything other than the inside of this prison again, you’ll say yes.”

Yeses came easier and easier. 

–––

Dedra was dumped back into her simple enclosure, her head whirling with the information Krennic had shared; the lies she had to tell; why. It was almost relaxing, sorting all the pieces in her head so they fit together in neat rows. This, then that, therefore that, and then this.  

“Hey, psst.”  

It was Dinn, from down the hall; the doors were still open, and they would be for another hour before the lights flickered off and the floors became electrified. She had missed the entire cycle, she realized, although her back still ached from sitting rail-rod straight, and her mind thundered and swelled like an ion storm. She laid down on her back, and stared at the ceiling.

“We thought you were dead.”

“I’m not,” she whispered back, and wondered at why it felt like she was telling the truth.   

Around the work table the next morning everyone was angry with her; being down a person, they had fallen behind, and had suffered for it. Her vague answers to their questions did not smooth things over at all, and Marrik had scowled and scowled and stomped on her foot as they left at the end of their shift. By accident, clearly, was the claim, but Dedra’s toe blackened and ached nonetheless.

It would heal fully before anyone at the ISB came again to Narkina 7. 

It was not a week. Not two, but closer to four. 

At the end of the second week she was still limping but her brief departure from the table had been forgotten in the blur of the white lights, the snapped orders, the tik tok of cogs efficiently piecing together with no wasted movements. The inmates that surrounded her had other things to gossip about in their sad lives and Dedra’s strangeness and quiet retreat from conversation did not go unnoticed, but they did not care.

She did not care about them, either, she reminded herself; they were prisoners at an Imperial facility and therefore they did something wrong. They deserved to be here. That missing crate that Yarrow had missed might have resulted in a compromised supply line; surely the water rations in Lothal were perfectly acceptable; and Dinn should have known better. There were no breaks in a factory, regardless of the heat; their constant work at this single table reminded her of that over and over again.

When the third week dragged into the fourth, Dedra had nearly convinced herself that Director Krennic’s visit had been a mirage, a dream. Only the faint bruising left on her toe grounded her.

When it had entirely faded, they came for her. The lights were out in their bunks, until they weren’t: blindingly bright, they snapped on far too early. The murmured sounds of confusion in her fellow prisoners woke her as much as the lights did, and then everyone grew careful and quiet as the sound of heavy footsteps came marching in with the shrill snap of shocksticks at the ready in the background like a low hum.

“Inmates: On program. Stand, stay your cells, hands on head,” came the intercom, dispassionate. “If you disobey floors will be activated.” 

Dedra could see Marrik frowning across from her, her hands twitching at her side but put the sour inmate out of her mind, for the only thing left in hers was hope.

There were just two troopers that marched in to stop right outside of her small cell, but it was enough to set off a fresh new set of humiliations: binders on her hands, her head covered with a bag. The last thing she saw before it went over her head was Dinn’s frowning face, leaning out of her cell to get a better look.

She stumbled and walked as best as she could, one trooper’s hand at her elbow shoving her forward. Dedra expected the interrogation room again, but they led her further, without telling her anything–not that she spoke up to ask, or to protest. When her feet hit the grate of a shuttle, and she was forced down into a thinly padded seat, she took a shudderly moment to exhale.

Surely, wherever she went would be better than where she had spent the last month. What was a lie or two? Once she said it, of course, she could never unsay it, never admit to it; if she did, she’d be a liar, and never to be trusted. If she spoke it she needed to believe it, to will it to truth.

Krennic had stressed the point. “You will be tested. Again and again. Your obsession with Axis is well-recorded, so lean into that. You are a cog, Meero. Be a cog.”

“And what then, what after?” she had asked, greatly daring. That question, he had not answered.

“Be a cog, Meero.”

She took it for the hidden meaning, not just his order to be a silent part of the machine, but to be an Imperial once more, a driver in it. The six-spoked radial design appeared on uniforms, on machinery, on doors, holocrons, ships. A version of it had hung large on a flag at the front of the shared dormitory at the kinderhome she had grown up in, haunted her vision when she closed her eyes.

She could try to lie, but being a cog–that came naturally.  

The shuttle shuddered and snapped into hyperspace, and thus began her long journey: blindfolded, shackled, a silent inmate. By the time she was deposited into yet another white room, down what felt like an endless parade of hallways, she was dizzy with exhaustion.

The troopers had not let her sleep; after the first prod to her stomach when she nodded off, Dedra had tried to conceal her head nodding. They made her stand instead, until her thighs ached with the effort of trying to brace against the shuttle’s abrupt movements without her hands free to catch her balance. 

When the cover of her head was removed, the cell she was in resembled the ISB, save the window looking into the control room was blacked out.  

Dedra recognized Chief Interrogator Haas immediately, of course, the double-row of blue and red a matched set to Krennic’s own. The head of Interrogations was not someone you wanted leading your own.

“Inmate Meero,” he began, casting a bored glance down to the datapad in his hand. “Thirty-six years of age. Served five years in Enforcement, then seven in Investigations.” He paused, light blue eyes flickering to her as she sat, trying to stay motionless but suddenly very awake. “You may confirm,” he said pointedly, letting the words drop out like stones.

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes…”

“Yes, chief interrogator.”

He nodded coolly, then moved to lounge against the wall, but never let his eyes drop from her. “You were close to Major Partagaz.”

“I served with him for years.”

“Off and on book.”

Dedra tilted her head. “I had assignments,” she said carefully. “I do not know what I can talk about, or what I can’t.”

“You had assignments that were not written down,” he repeated. “That is the only reason we’ve dragged you back from the far reaches of the galaxy, to hear about those. So, report.”

“If that’s true, sir,” Dedra said, “then you know I was given them by–”

“–by Director Krennic and Major Partagaz. They may even have claimed the Emperor was involved.” He paused, then offered a sly smirk. “Don’t be shy, inmate. Go ahead and said it: You didn’t know why. You were just following orders.”

“That’s all I’ve ever done,” Dedra said hotly, letting her anger spill out. “And where did it get me? Thrown in prison because one of my colleagues got himself murdered–”

“Yes, your files do say you exhibit emotion under stress.” The words were so cutting and so wrong that Dedra felt her mouth open like bass fish, without managing to make another sound. “You did well at Ghorman, after Ferrix’s disaster. There’s a commendation in your file, stating exceptional service. Did you know that?”

“My file is sealed,” said Dedra icily. “How would I access it?”

“How indeed. How did you access Jedha mining reports, or Eadu research journals?” 

Now was the time for the lie, and it fell out of her mouth so easily she wondered that she ever thought it would be difficult. “I was told to, sir, I was told where to look.”

Haas nodded, once, as if he expected the answer, then his eyes flickered to the datapad in his hand again. “From Major Partagaz.”

She took a breath, let it out. “Yes.”

“The commendation in your file is from Director Krennic. Had you not blown up your career so handily, you would have been promoted within the year.” The blue eyes were studying her, but its ice was anything but transparent. “He’s not so fond of you now.”

It was an understatement. “No, sir,” she said, and her jaw ached as she did.  

“Start at the beginning, inmate. Walk me through every time you met with Director Krennic."

Chapter Text

As he stood staring down at the stalled factory in Eadu, Krennic despaired at how everything had gone so poorly so quickly. Just three weeks ago, he had promised the Emperor a new Death Star, confident in his ability to cut through bureaucratic red tape with the clear-eyed precision he had become known for.

In those short weeks it had become increasingly and uncomfortably clear that Grand Moff Tarkin had done some, if not all, of that work, dealt with personalities he’d never been in the room with, and made Krennic’s role easier without his knowledge. 

It all started with the most basic of issues: credits. The dissolution of the Senate should have cleared the way to easy new funding, free of oversight. But it was not that simple: yes, military funding now poured in, but none of it made it to his pockets or projects. 

After the Death Star’s destruction, the newly coined rebellion had received a boost in recruitment and fame that General Tagge had insisted on facing with the full might of the fleet–which included a fleet modernization, new investment in shipyards and TIE fighters and a rollout of an Executor-class dreadnought. He had slashed Krennic’s line item without even a memo notifying him, citing “unacceptable redundancy.” 

He did not even have the illusion of the renewable energy program to help gild his pockets. With the irrefutable proof of the existence of his once secret project revealed to the galaxy, his mere presence at the Palace or within ISB had become a lightning rod of suspicion and gossip, and hiding billions of credits on the budget sheet required finesse and patience.

For now, the factories and workcamps he had jumpstarted were now running on fumes, smiles, and promises of overdue funds.

The gossiping about Krennic’s fallen status had not stayed constrained to the ISB, to his intense horror. A few of Tarkin’s former aides, now all sporting mid-tier insignia, had been busy bees, beginning a whisper campaign designed solely to reach the ears of Mas Amedda. When the first report crossed his desk about an inner core elite Coruscanti referring to him as “unreliable” and “dangerously independent” at a party–where he could be overheard–Krennic had immediately set his own plans in motion, and had requested a hearing with Mas Amedda and the Imperial Ruling Council to plead his funding case.

Amedda had declined, and a classified memo had appeared on his desk the next day outlining a new protocol requiring council review for all classified megastructures. 

None of this was aided by his new, balding shadow from Investigations and Interrogations. Captain Lagret had served under Major Partagaz for years as a faithful footstool, and he had even been on friendly terms with Krennic.

That friendliness had vanished as soon as the news about Partagaz being a secret mole broke. Krennic was sure that Lagret suspected the truth–that it was all lies, dreamed up to protect Krennic’s own reputation and goals.

“And this is your vaulted factory?” Lagret asked coldly. They had barely exchanged a word on the journey in on Krennic’s shuttle. “Where are the workers? I see no one on the floor.”

“The shipment of kyber crystals has been delayed,” said Krennic. “A temporary measure–”

“–a pattern,” interrupted Lagret. “Chief Interrogator Hass will want to know.” 

Haas, that thorn in his side, had demanded a full, personal audit of the new project, and every factory and workcamp and station, claiming Krennic’s report insufficient for their security clearance. Every employee needed to be personally re-cleared for access. “I’ll assist,” Haas had said. “I’m sending you ISB officers from my team.” 

They were all spies, chittering and chattering and smiling to his face whilst writing wretched reports back to skewer him further.

“Let us inspect the floor,” Krennic said, disassembling, and led the way through the grey doors that hissed open. Major Tiaan Jerjerrod stood on the other end with a surprised look on his face, a hand outstretched as if he were about to knock and a datapad in his hand.

“Director Krennic,” he said, “my apologies for not meeting you on the landing platform. I have new readouts on the plans for your eyes only.”

“Walk with me,” Krennic said, accepting the datapad. The Major’s engineering background and experience managing large shipyards had been invaluable during the first build, and he was one of the few senior-level survivors of the disaster, having been assigned cleanup on Eadu just before the Battle of Yavin.  

“Surely not his eyes only,” said Lagret from behind them.

He would be damned if a pencil pusher would double-check his work. “Be careful not to overstep your mandate, Captain. This is engineering work, not security or resources. Nothing says 'qualified' like an interrogator poking around superlaser alignment matrices. Now–the floor.” Krennic swept on without checking to see if he was followed, and when he reached the slick, pristine steel floor, he turned to see both Jerjerrod and Lagret in tow.

“We’ve prepped the lines to start as soon as materials arrive,” reported Jerjerrod, nodding at the idle machines. “And as soon as the workers are cleared, of course. Will you be handling that personally, Captain?”  

By the sour expression on Lagret’s face, the answer was likely yes. 

“The quicker we can make that happen, the quicker we can resume,” said Krennic, neglecting to mention the lack of payroll or materials: the delay here was entirely on Haas.

“We will be beginning the interview process shortly,” Lagret said, and then wanted to see the engineer’s quarters–quiet, lonely, since they had all perished nearly a month ago. He spent more time than usual at the doorway to Galen Erso’s quarters, which had already been thoroughly ransacked.

The morning passed quickly, and despite Krennic’s fingers itching to break into Jerjerrod’s report, it was useful, if frustrating, to see the empty warehouses and the reserves of the kyber crystals that had been deemed unusable. At one point Jerjerrod received a buzz on his comlink, frowned, and broke off from the official tour, but this was hardly Krennic’s first time at Eadu, and so it continued: security checkpoint here, onboarding here, supervisors here.

In some ways it made him nostalgic; the earliest plans for the laser had been constructed here, formed first from the engineers working on the energy project and then reassessed and altered on his own terminal for its true purpose. There was a simplicity in it, in working with circuits and conduits and charts and cascades. And they never spoke back, or complained.  

Eventually, his feet led him to his own office, tucked away deep inside the mountaintop and apart from the engineer’s quarters. When the door hissed open, it felt like he had never left: the broad, concrete desk–he’d gone for industrial, decorating here–the simple shelves on the wall, the plush seats. He had a series of offices, and none truly were his own; they were ornamental, decoration of his power and importance rather than made for form or function.  

Lagret’s footsteps halted outside, and Krennic turned to regard him; he had not warmed up through the day but there were some flashes of their old, easy correspondence. And to get what he needed to get done he needed to control the message. And to do that one must control the messenger.

“It came as a shock to me, too, you know, this investigation into Partagaz,” Krennic said abruptly, as Lagret began to walk away, headed for his own quarters to make a report, or prepare for the next day’s journey. “I’ve–I knew Lio for decades.”

The captain stopped, then turned back, the cool lights from the factory hallway casting his face in shadow. He did not say anything, just studied Krennic with his lips tightly pursed.

“I trusted him,” Krennic continued. “We all did.” He shrugged. “It might all be just smoke and mirrors, someone trying to muddy a good man’s reputation. Until there’s something to prove it.” 

“We’re looking into it,” said Lagret cautiously. 

“That’s good news,” he said. It was: Krennic had buried this particular scrap of information deep in the memorybanks of ISB, in scraps and hushed whispers, and had feared to overtip his hand. When nothing had come of the initial investigation, he suspected the hints had been too light. He gestured a beckoning hand, and moved into his office towards the desk, where he had a bottle stored. Over his shoulder he said, “Come have a drink with me, Lagret.”

As he bent over and fumbled for the wide-base glasses and the tall Corellian bottle that sloshed comfortingly full inside, he heard the slow steps move forward, and his office door hiss shut, and smiled to himself. Krennic came up triumphant, holding the tall bottle by its neck. “Ah–I thought I had this here still. Let’s make it a remembrance.”

Lagret’s face was a study of worry and longing. What is the shape of a man, without a mentor, or worse, when that mentor’s shadow turned toxic? Krennic held out the half-empty glass, his own expression cautiously serious, and when Lagret accepted it, he moved to the window, and drew the shades open.

The factory was far underground, tucked away from the mountainous and storm-swept surface, and Krennic’s office was in the protected depths. What he gazed at now was just a video feed of the surface world, and not even a live one at that: the acidic rain washing down from a blackened sky rife with lightning. He had chosen this feed years ago, preferring its chaos and connection to the planet to the sun and beauty that the engineers, like Galen, had selected to decorate their cramped workstations.

Not that he had spent much time in Galen’s office or quarters after bringing him back here. Their relationship had never recovered from Lyra’s death, and their paths had become far too different.  

“Why the exterior of Eadu?” said Lagret, indicating the screen. “You could program that to show anything.” 

Krennic shrugged, and gave the simple answer. “I have dozens of offices,” he said. “You’re learning that, on this whirlwind tour; we’ll visit the remains of Scarif, next, then Fondor. Sometimes it’s hard to remember where I am.” 

“That must have forced you to delegate,” said Lagret. The implication was not subtle. 

The Corellian brandy tasted like apples and cinnamon, and had a bitter bite to it, like being dressed down by a superior on a bridge. “I am hearing Haas in your words, Lagret. Let’s put that aside for now: I’m opening my files to your careful review already. Let’s remember Lio.”

“He was always so sure of himself,” Lagret said mournfully, and at Krennic’s gesture, took a seat at one of the leather-wrapped chairs opposite the desk. “I learned so much at his table. It is inconceivable to me that he had this other identity.”

Krennic sighed deeply, then took his own perch, half-sitting on the desktop. “My initial investigation was limited to closing the leak,” he admitted. “I hate to think that I missed something so large, and yet, when we look back at it now, the whole capture of Axis was botched. Someone with information about the Death Star’s construction leaked it to Luthen, and everything happened under Partagaz’s watch.” 

Lagret’s sunken eyes flickered upwards to meet Krennic’s. It was a convincing argument, playing on Imperial confidence. Surely the insurgents are not this organized; it must have been treachery. “It must have been someone else,” he said. “Major Partagaz was a true believer.”

“I hope you are right, and the ISB investigation clears him,” said Krennic. It would not, he had made sure of it, and if all went well, that new crack in Investigations would further undermine Haas while shifting blame from his own security failures. He sighed again, then raised his glass. “To Lio, whose wit brightened my day on many occasions, and who guided us all in times of darkness.”

“To Lio,” repeated Lagret, this time with no hesitation in it, and took a sip. His eyes widened.

“Left aside for a day I’d planned to celebrate,” Krennic said in explanation. “I never had the chance to open it. Everything has happened so quickly.” 

The office door hissed open, revealing the lanky Jerjerrod, still wearing his hat–truly the worst part of the Imperial uniform. “Sir,” he began, then fell silent when he spotted Lagret seated at the desk.

“Come join us,” said Krennic, his eyes making it an order, and waved the Major in. 

Jerjerrod hesitated at first, but as soon as he had a cup in his hand relaxed noticeably. “I’ve missed this,” he said. “When I was stationed at Corellia it wasn’t just me with bars, and no one relaxes at the caf when the boss is hovering.”

Krennic, very familiar with the phenomenon, tried not to hover. “How long were you at the shipyards there?” he asked; he already knew, of course, having vetted the then-Captain for his staff prior to his promotion.  

“Nearly six years,” he said. “All logistics at that time, of course; it’s useful being an engineer even when you’re supervising. We converted the Venator-class Star Destroyers there.”

“Those are the ones General Tagge is refitting again now,” Krennic noted. And why, when they were perfectly serviceable? All those materials that could instead build a new Death Star.

“Grand General, now, didn’t you hear?” said Lagret. “The announcement came through the ISB wire just yesterday.”

This was ill news for two reasons: Krennic hadn’t, and someone that was actively blocking his projects now had a promotion. He poured himself another splash to commiserate. “To his health,” he said, and watched the other two raise and swallow. 

Small talk continued, Krennic offering an encouraging question from time to time and watching the two connect. By the time Lagret waved off another pour and left smiling, it felt almost as if they had returned to their old easy familiarity, and Krennic had collected tiny tidbits of gossip; Haas’s heavy-handedness had not been welcome after so long under the careful diplomacy of Partagaz, and his new witchhunt, lifting rocks to find spies, had won him some enemies.

Krennic beamed at the door that hissed shut after Lagret’s departure, and then put his cup on the desk next to him and the half-empty bottle. “The plans,” he said.

Jerjerrod felt the shift in the air and stiffened his back. “Here, sir. As ordered, keeping to analog in all instances. We identified the weakness within the reactor core and the fix is an easy one; in retrospect it’s so obvious.” He hesitated. “We’ll make sure the next battlestation’s thermal exhaust ports are heavily armored, too, just in case.”  

“Do that,” Krennic said drily, accepting the heavy golden disc greedily. It weighed more than it looked, or perhaps less than it should, considering its contents. “And what’s this about the kyber crystals delay?”

“It’s not a delay. It’s permanent. Fondor’s shipyards are guild-run, and the cargoshippers are demanding payment in advance. We’re stalled.”

They had chosen Fondor to be discreet, hiding materials from both their source and destination, and line items on warehouse manifests listed only “special materials processing” or seemingly officious projects like “planetary weather control array repairs.” 

“The shipyards were to send the crystals through Bothawui, routing past Hutt space; they get picked up in regular Imperial shipments from there,” Jerjerrod continued.

“Because the Guild don’t know it’s destined for us, or what’s inside,” Krennic translated, “they feel like they can take advantage of the situation.”

“Yes, sir. And we paid extra for their ignorance–”

“Not now we aren’t,” interrupted Krennic. 

“The longer this shipment sits in their warehouse unpaid, the more likely they will take a peek, or try to offload it.”

“These conglomerates are all owned by someone–who controls this sector?”

“You’d think that, sir, but it really is the Fondor Guild of Starshipwrights. They’ve managed to keep their independence for centuries.”

“Have they,” said Krennic. 

–––

Krennic cleared out his office before making the call. The bottle of brandy went back into its drawer, unlikely to reemerge; the screen switched from the awe-inspiring wasteland to a placid, simple Coruscanti skyline. He was never one for knickknacks but somehow a fragment of a kyber crystal had become a paperweight on the stainless steel desk; he tossed it ruthlessly into a drawer, then swept his hands across the wide, empty platform. 

Eadu had access to tightbeam transmissions, and with his personal ISB-cleared access, it meant private, secure correspondence across regardless how far away the recipient might be. Of course, the recipient had to pick up.

Grand General Tagge left Krennic on read for nearly an hour. And when he picked up, he started off hot.

“Look, Director, I don’t have time for your complaints right now. It’s my budget and I’ve got the right–”

“I’m not here to complain, Cassio,” Krennic inserted smoothly. “We’re all feeling pressure right now. I’m here to make your life easier.”

The squat, cleanly-shaved man on the other end of the screen laughed. “Orson, when you show up in my hololist offering favors, I’ve learned not to take it at face value. I don’t have time for much of anything right now, so if you’re pitching, do it fast.”

Krennic spread his hands out wide. “You know me. I find solutions to problems you didn’t know could be solved. That’s why I got here, and that’s how I can be helpful right now. It will solve some problems for me, too, I won’t hide that.”

“Get to it,” Tagge said, enunciating each word. His eyes were flickering back and forth from the screen to something off camera. Rumors had it that the insurgents had launched a major offensive in the Mid Rim, yet another reason Krennic felt confident his idea would be received well.  

“Fondor’s shipyards,” Krennic said. “Right now all the destroyers you’re retrofitting are stuffed into Corellia and the Kuat Drive Yards. But Fondor’s right there–”

“–didn’t you hear me? The budget–”

“–we won’t pay them,” Krennic said bluntly. “I can’t magic my way into credits for materials, but for men? For labor? Why bother? We nationalize the yards.”

Tagge was not glancing at his other screen now. “Interesting. Fondor’s powerful,” he began. “They’ve even resisted taking on our military contracts, citing objections. The Senate’s not an issue anymore but that means the merchant lords will have more power than ever before.”

“Let me worry about that,” Krennic said, smiling. “I handled Ghorman, didn’t I? I’ll need bait, a reason to be there–that Executor-class I saw on the budget line.”

“My flagship?” said Tagge, and laughed. “I have starship designers aplenty, Orson. You’ve a reputation for coming in over budget and late, the worst part of Tarkin’s Folly. Why would I ever entrust you with the fleet’s new flagship?” 

Krennic knew he would need to congratulate himself later about his poise and diplomacy at this moment. 

“You know that’s not entirely true, Grand General. As to why: surely you have something bigger to worry about–a military offensive. What I am good at is moving things around, quietly, effectively, and ruthlessly,” he said. “Let me help, Cassio.”

“What about your little spat within the ISB–”

“I’ve come out of worse on top, Grand General,” Krennic said coldly. “Let me be clear: this isn’t a favor I’m doing you–I need the shipyards. But I can make your life easier while I’m doing it, and all it costs you is a few rubber stamps. We’re on the same side here.”

Tagge leaned back in his chair, his eyes calculating. “Meetings of the Joint Chiefs have been a bit different without you at the table, Orson.”

“Or Yularen?” Krennic asked, arcing an eyebrow. “Or–let’s say it now–Tarkin? We’re both men of action, Cassio. This plan isn’t something we need to share with the Chiefs, not yet. I’ll play it close to the vest, and you may be sure I’ll be back for my seat.” 

“Always finding opportunities in the ashes. Alright, I’ll bite.”

Chapter Text

The last time Dedra had been interrogated, she quickly came to realize, it had been by a rank amateur. Director Krennic had a reputation; when he appeared at the back of a white room with a furrowed brow, jaws snapped shut, shoulders swept back, sphincters clenched. 

Chief Interrogator Renn Haas was different, and cleaner, and sharper. It was art to him, or a chase; he simply poked and prodded, eschewing the tinkering tools and machines that the late doctor Gorst had employed on the planet Ferrix. He never stopped, never grew tired: he asked the same question a dozen times in a dozen ways, sometimes overlapping queries in a rapidfire flood; sometimes just plain statements in a monotone; or sudden silences; or restatements of her own words, except wrong, encouraging her to correct him. 

All she had to do was keep to one single, simple lie. It should have been easy, and still, over the course of the long, sleep deprived week, she came within a hair’s distance to failure.

“Why did Partagaz entrust this responsibility to you, of all his reports?” Haas said, cold eyes staring down at her. 

She fumbled for an answer, and failed to reach one. It would have been easy to claim that she was special, or better, than the others at his table–after all, that was true. “I don’t know.” 

“You must have wondered.”

“I did as I was ordered,” she said.

Then, an hour later: “He must have trusted and respected you greatly.” 

It took everything in her not to fill the empty silence with ready agreement, with reasons why, with protestations of her own importance, of her intelligence, how she was the only one to see–

Her jaw ached with the pressure of clenching her teeth.  

At one point, in the middle of it all, she wondered at why she was doing this, why she was choosing to sell out a man that had been an advisor to her on the half-whispered hope that Director Krennic had purred into her ear. But she did know why; the answer lurked in the darkest corners of her mind that she did not choose to peer at too closely. She wanted to win. She wanted to be in charge. She wanted power. She did not want to go back to Narkina 7, or any other place worse–and there were worse places.  

So Dedra would play the game.

And so she did. Sleep-deprived but careful, loopy with the lights and faint with hunger, facing rotating interrogators but always, always the stone-faced Haas: she shared everything she did over three years of scavenging reports and information, wrung bits and parcels of her secrets, pointed to all the loopholes and inefficiencies that allowed her to gather the Death Star’s plans into one, insecure location, and then said simply that she did it because she was told to. 

She had nothing to share about Supervisor Jung, beyond cutting criticism. The implication that Partagaz had given her code to Jung, and orchestrated the leak to Axis, hung unspoken about the room.

“Let them make their own conclusions,” whispered the ghost Krennic in her ear, and at the end of it all, she agreed with him. It was better this way. 

At one point Haas turned to her and asked, quietly, like it had just occurred to him to inquire, “Why do you serve the Empire?”

The query was so different from the others he had tossed at her that it disarmed Dedra entirely. She blinked at him in utter confusion as she answered without thinking: “Because there must be order.” 

He nodded, once, and it felt like some sort of test had been passed that she did not understand. The rest of the questions continued: about Partagaz, about Krennic, about Ghorman, about the Death Star, about her methods, about where the cracks in the ISB’s security lie.

Eventually, eventually, she was shown to a simple cell and a padded mat, where the lights were dark. When she woke, it felt like her whole world had changed.

–––

At the foot of her twin-width bed, staring down at her as she blurred back to consciousness, frowned supervisor Blevin, his dark skin a stark contrast to the pale ivory of his uniform. He looked about as happy to see her as she was to see him.

“Meero,” he said, with heavy disgust. 

Dedra startled and scrambled, clutching at the thin blanket, her feet swinging out of the bed to land on the cool metal floor. She was still barefoot, still wearing an inmate uniform from Narkina 7. “Blevin,” she said in greeting, omitting the honorarium, which by the curl of his lip he noticed. But what else was there to say?

“You’re luckier than most,” he continued coldly. “Or perhaps unluckier–I wouldn’t have the stomach to be the poster-child of Haas’s rehabilitation experiment, trotted out every time he wants to point at how he’s ‘repurposing resources effectively.’” He had said the words as if it were a quote, and then he stopped, as if waiting for her to say something, but Dedra kept her mouth shut. 

The two of them had fenced words over Partagaz’s table five years ago, and she had won. The encounter had resulted in his district being reassigned to Dedra’s supervision and this was already the longest conversation they had since then.

“It’s my delight to inform you,” Blevin continued, biting out each word with bile, “that you’ve been promoted. Or demoted, take your pick. You’ll be joining my staff as an attendant. If you think I’ll be easy on you because of our old friendship…” The words trailed off like a threat. 

Anything was a promotion over being an inmate, but it was a bar down from her previous rank. She took a quick breath in, then out, as she processed the information, and decided this would be fine. It had to be. “I wouldn’t expect anything of you,” she said, and watched him frown again as he parsed what might have been an insult, or might have been poor phrasing.

Blevin folded his arms over his chest. “They’re putting everyone to work at tracking down the insurgent threat, immediately. I don’t have time to get you up to speed; you’ll need to pick it up as we go. And you can’t wear that in the ISB board room.” He pointed at her tunic in disgust, and self-consciously her hand went to her chest to hide the orange and white stripe.

“Where–” she began, and then fell silent as he pointed to the lockbox at the foot of the bed; it had not been there when she had collapsed, bleary-eyed and vacant-minded, just hours before.  

“I’ll leave you to get ready,” he said shortly. “There’s a terminal in my office; I trust you know the way.”  

He turned on his heel and left the room, and for a brief moment Dedra was alone in ISB headquarters. If, she thought grimly, there was ever such a thing as being alone in a guarded cell.  

Reaching into the footlocker, her fingers went first to the rank bar that was placed carefully on top of the folded grey uniform: two simple blue rectangles. It had been nearly ten years since she had worn these proudly, fresh out of the Academy, and in Enforcement; the year she’d been promoted, she had requested the transfer to Investigations, preferring the deep data analysis over the more brutal, front-line activities. The sleek, simple metal slipped under her fingers as she remembered.

Moving quickly, Dedra put on the greys, thanking whatever kind person who had stocked the locker with a small bottle of industrial-strength odor suppressant, and stood, staring at her reflection in the one-way transparisteel panel. 

She did not look her best: spots of blue and purple darkened into a bruise in the crevasses of her eyes; her cheeks were sunken, hollow; and there was something resigned in her expression. But she was wearing a uniform, and she had footwear on, and she was free.  

The wall com clicked on with a static buzz, playing Blevin’s irritated, clipped voice in the cell. “Whenever you’re done staring at yourself, Meero.”

Her lips tugged downwards as she gave one brief nod to the mirror. She strode to the door, where it opened–a brief, horrified moment of fear passed through her mind that this was just a test, that it would stay closed, but it did open–and when she emerged she knew where she was. It was not that far of a walk to the tunnel warrens of the offices of ISB Investigations.  

As she strode through the hallways and up to the elevator, more and more of her confidence returned, right up to the moment when she arrived outside Blevin’s office, and saw too-familiar faces lean out of their own offices to stare at her, and heard the whispers. Faces she had smiled at or frowned at or snapped at daily, across Partagaz’s table; faces that scowled back at her now.

Whatever her resurrection here, it was not yet known, or popular. The terminal, its green-and-black cursor blinking, was far more welcoming, and when it lit up under her fingers, accepting her passcode and feeding out a flood of information, another knot of fear that she did not know she was carrying began to ease.

She was so engrossed in the data–a readout of supply chain disruptions that spilled out across the Hydian Way–that she did not hear Blevin arrive behind her. 

“You look halfway presentable; good. We’ve been summoned to the conference room.” 

When she did not immediately push out her chair, he grabbed it and pulled it out for her. “Listen, Meero, I know why they put you under me, and you know too,” he hissed. “You’re insubordinate and careless and your reckoning has come far too late, and somehow you’ve survived through it all. I’m less happy about you as my attendant than you are to be here. But you will not embarrass me.”  

“I have no intention of doing so,” Dedra said, and stood, turning to face him with a low burning fire in her eyes. Blevin was uncomfortably close; she could smell his aftershave: mint and citrus. “You are wrong about me. There’s a reason why I’m here and I’m sure Interrogator Haas assigned me to you for exactly that reason, and not just to irritate you. Now, should we go?” 

His lip curled again, and then Blevin whirled on his heel, marching for the door like a petulant child. She followed him, up to the all-too-familiar blindingly white, crisp and clean conference room, and met the curious eyes of those who stared at her as she entered directly, without fear.

She did not have a seat, and stood with her back to the wall where it, too, was crowded; the oval conference table had majors, captains, and supervisors, and their aides; few, if any, wore grey. There were many faces she did not recognize, and assumed they were from Interrogations, or reassigned. Two empty seats at the center were conspicuously empty; a puzzle immediately solved when Deputy Director Brend strode in accompanied by Haas, whose ice-blue eyes swept across the room like a searchlight, and then fastened on her.

The room got very quiet, very fast, and when Haas took his seat, it was to a solemn hush.

Brend had not chosen to sit at all, instead choosing to stand and leaning on the back of his chair. He had been a familiar figure as the late Director Yularen’s shadow, but a quiet one. 

“I’m glad we all feel the weight of this moment,” said Brend, and the light humor in his tone cut through some of the tension immediately. “I won’t be here long; you’re in capable hands under Chief Interrogator Haas. His work in this combined department has already led to findings of staggering importance: deficiencies in process, lapses in security, and concerning indicators of diminished internal alignment and personnel reliability.

“As the ISB moves forward it is critical that these lapses are corrected. The Empire needs us more than ever: needs us whole, working together, and doing so in a way that does not threaten the security of its operations, its intelligence infrastructure, or the chain of command upon which stability depends.”

Brend cleared his throat, and then pushed back from the chair. “I’m having similar conversations today with Internal Affairs and Counter-Insurgency. Haas, the room is yours.”

“Thank you, deputy director,” Haas said, and that monotone voice brought Dedra right back to the previous week. She was suddenly glad she was standing, and with her back to the wall. “I’ve appreciated your support in the past six weeks.”  

Brend gave the room a lazy salute as he moved to the exit, and when the door hissed back shut, Haas continued, his hands neatly folded on the conference table in front of him. “Most of you already know this news: I will restate it simply, and without blame. Responsible parties for the leak of the Death Star plans have been identified and where possible, censured. The events and lapses leading up to the leak were a blemish on the entire Imperial Security Bureau, and we are taking steps to make sure that it can never be replicated.

“There is a difference between data and information that you need to be effective, and the data and information that leads to a security breach. The chain of command will be obeyed in my department going forward; requests for reports outside of your purview must be authorized, and later destroyed.

“A central figure in our discovery of the many loopholes and breach vectors is Attendant Meero, who will be also debriefing and consulting with Internal Affairs.” 

Dozens of eyes snapped to her across the room and Dedra felt her mouth tug downwards again and her face go blank under the weight of it all, and nearly missed the rest of Haas’s speech.

“Her list of internal risks and processes was illuminating. However it could not be comprehensive: I will be continuing my hunt for vulnerabilities internally even as all of you turn your eyes outward, seeking the same within the insurgent threat.” He paused. “Attendant Meero, your unique qualifications have won you a return to the Bureau on probation, despite your connection with the late Lio Partagaz. Have you anything to say to the assembled officers?”

The question sprang out of nowhere and it was another test, this time a public one. Dedra’s throat closed around her first instinct: to apologize, to tell everyone that she failed, and she was sorry, that she would do better. She suddenly felt ten again, in the kinder-block, standing in front of a row of frowning male teachers and crying and apologizing for not scoring top marks in the class. 

She seized on the memory, and the first line of the oft-repeated allegiance pledge engraved into her mind. “I am here to serve the Empire, Chief Interrogator.” 

Haas waited for a beat, as if he was expecting something more, and then raised an eyebrow. “As are we all. Now. Report: what have we discovered in the Mid-Rim? Major Vosk, we’ll start with you.”

As the attention slid away from her, Dedra let herself take a brief moment to center herself before turning her attention to the information which poured in like a flood from the table: unusual patterns of holonet encryption use by non-military terminals in rural systems near Lothal; mothballed relay towers drawing energy, potential sites of insurgent use; suspicious transfers or terminations in mining guilds and shipping conglomerates. 

It was a relief to be swaddled in the numbers and patterns once more, surrounded by personnel that were as dedicated as she. She set aside the word ‘probation’ for now, to ponder and probe at later, and concentrated on the quick-fire sharing before her, taking brief notes in the datapad in her hand.

Later, back at the terminal, and alone save for the plunk-plunk of Blevin at the keys behind her, Dedra dug into one of the leads and inconsistencies she had spotted earlier, and tied it to the shipping transfer she had heard mentioned at the table. It had felt off to her; there was something wrong, and she’d long learned to trust her instincts.

The rush of green numbers on the screen swept down like a swarm of buzz droids, and there–there was something–the numbers spoke to her sometimes, and it felt like she was on the cusp–

The screen went blank, flickered, and Dedra frowned, then hit her keyboard twice.

It flickered again, and when it returned, the cursor was blinking on two words: Hello, Meero. 

She froze in place, a cold spike of fear stabbing at her, then leaned forward to hide her screen from Blevin, should he turn around. Dedra stared at the words: was this Haas? Was this some impossible trap, some loyalty test? How was it on the ISB system, if not Haas? Or was it Krennic, coming to pay his due–or worse was it some remnant of Axis, now reaching out to her–

A new word appeared, and then disappeared as soon as it was written: Maws. 

The terminal blinked again, then the flood of information on shipping transfers returned, as if it had never been interrupted.

Chapter Text

The shipyards rotated like metal spiders in orbit around the blue ocean world of Fondor. Long ago the residents of the waterworld felt limited by the ground underfoot and had chosen to turn to the stars and stared upwards, searching for space to stretch out, to build. In the centuries that followed their search for a home, and the construction of the spinning discs in low orbit, had become Fondor’s greatest asset, even as the colony planet’s population dwindled and workers were replaced by droids. 

At least that was what the top sheet on the data brief Krennic skimmed said, babbling on at too great of a length. Of far more relevant interest to him was the extensive dossier on the shipyards themselves: how a few of the great spinning doughnuts had been retrofitted from servicing civilian cruisers to serving the Imperial Fleet a decade ago, but only docked for repairs.

“They’ve had the facilities to build, but no contracts?” he asked Jerjerrod as the Lambda-class shuttle they were on lurched into hyperspace. The Major was a sharp one, and eager; Krennic had once sported a revolving door of assistant directors or facility directors, and had become fond of many, but all the ones he depended on had been aboard the Death Star. 

So he made do. And Tiaan seemed ambitious but cautious; a rare combination.  

“That’s mostly right, sir.” Jerjerrod hung on to the dropgrip that swung from the low ceiling as if he was used to being a passenger on much larger vehicles, and had an ill expression plastered pastily on his face. “They built four Destroyers fifteen years ago, and then refused contracts since.” 

“Why?” 

“They cited concerns about ceding security to the military, too much oversight, too much overwork, stressed budgets–”

Krennic would eat his cap if any of those excuses were the real cause. “All of those existed when they accepted the first contract,” he pointed out. “And they rushed to welcome me when I requested a meeting.” 

That was where they were heading now; Krennic had arranged for a morning pitch session with the Master Shipwright himself, a pompous pale-faced man he’d all but kissed through the viewscreen back at Eadu. Tagge had sent over the plans for the new Executor-class and a budget readout that Krennic had first laughed at, then tripled, before he’d made the sales pitch to the Shipwright.

After all, it was just for show, just about getting in the door. He wouldn’t be paying in the end. 

“There’s additional analysis of their finances at the time,” Jerjerrod continued. “ISB agents went back fifteen years, tracked back the personalities at the Guild. And… we suspect it’s our own fault, sir; Fondor had a series of major losses when Separatists destroyed one of their hubs. After the peace of the Empire, they were able to rebound quickly. That initial contract was an anomaly, but we paid them well.”

There was a first for everything, Krennic thought, amused. “You mentioned personalities.”

“The Shipwright you know: Koryn Drel. He’s a bit of a traditionalist but not averse to working with the military, when need and credits align. We’ve sent a few Destroyers his way for repair; that’s in there too. His demands are always local autonomy; it’s a bit of an annoyance, having to do our ISB tech sweep after it’s out of the shop, but we’ve managed.”  

The datapad flickered from the dour, overweight Fondorian to a much younger woman with pale green eyes as Jerjerrod continued. “That’s the treasurer and auditor of the co-op, Jova Brentall. She’s got her hand on the purse strings. Just two years into the role, sir, but she was handpicked by the former auditor when he retired.”  

“Options?” Krennic said lazily. “Family? Debts?”

“Both. And a promising lead with the latter. We’re working it.”  

“Do it fast,” Krennic said, despite knowing they already were, but still feeling the pressure to say it. “The timetable here is shifting under our feet.” He paused. “You’ve been to Fondor before.”

Jerjerrod startled. “Ah–of course you’d know. Yes, sir; I was a starship designer before I joined the military. It’s why I was recruited into your department, Director. My apprenticeship was at Kuat; we visited Fondor often for tours of their facilities.”

“You’ll play that up,” Krennic said, not a suggestion, and Jerjerrod nodded in agreement. He still had that slightly ill expression on his face, and he turned even paler when the shuttle shuddered underfoot. “I don’t suppose they’ve ever designed a starship that doesn’t recoil when it’s coming out of lightspeed.” 

“It’s been done,” Jerjerrod said, then winced again. “I rode in Grand Moff Tarkin’s Carrion Spike, once–that was a beautiful ship.” 

“Yes, he certainly spared no expense,” said Krennic cuttingly, and cast out Tarkin from his mind once more with a frown. Although… “When were you on the Spike?” 

“It was during a meeting for sector governors, sir. Before I joined the Navy I was an assistant to one of the Moffs.”

Krennic absorbed that, then returned to the dossier in his lap. “I’ll be the one talking, but you’ll need to speak up, throw obstacles in the way, insist on structure. Are you up-to-date with the modifications necessary?”

“Yes sir, but I’d like to review again before the morning.”

Even as the shuttlecraft roared through hyperspace, it became a quiet study zone for the two of them; Krennic flipping between reports from the delays across all of his production factories–only the Narkina sites were doing anything close to the numbers he’d tasked them with–and the clandestine, confusing memos that were coming out of ISB high command.

Most alarming of all of that was a request from Vassyl of Internal Affairs, with a carbon copy to deputy director Brent for a meeting “as soon as you might make yourself available” which meant now, jump, return immediately to Coruscant. 

He would in due time. For now Krennic watched the vultures circling and waited for the right moment to spring the traps. He’d laid out the bait; now they just needed to stoop, land, and gorge themselves. And Haas could not resist, not between Partagaz’s fresh treason and the alarming reports Krennic had arranged to arrive in Lagret’s luggage.  

–––

The rooms the Guild of Starshipwrights had arranged for the two of them were sumptuous yet sterile; private yet clearly provided solely as a stage. The massive viewports dominated the quarters, and outside loomed an awe-inspiring view of the shipyards where multiple cruisers were being built in record time, spider-like droids skittering all around the surface. The living spaces themselves were comfortable, clean, crisp; set aside for the most discerning of potential buyers.

It would have been more awe-inspiring had Krennic not watched the Death Star’s creation with avid interest and from a much more intimate point of view. And he was damn sure the rooms were bugged, too; Jerjerrod’s frown of displeasure when the door slid open implied that the Major agreed.

Or perhaps it was that Jerjerrod got the viewports that stared out to the endless dark of space.

Yet there was something familiar and relaxing about the smell of recycled, space station air, and so Krennic slept well, and woke up refreshed to do battle with the guild.

Not that they seemed inclined for a fight: it was pomp and ceremony and then he and Jerjerrod were whisked away to a massive office that overlooked the central hub. Behind a desk that was clearly just for show stood the pasty-faced Shipwright Drel, who in person stretched much taller and thinner than he had appeared digitally.

But he still had that oily smile. “Director, director!” he said. “Pleased to have you here, to hear of your needs. It has been some time since the Empire designed a new ship.”

“Indeed,” said Krennic, settling down in one of the delicate chairs with its single leg cautiously. It looked as if its leg would break in two at any moment and send him sprawling on the floor. “We have shipyards of our own, naturally. This contract would be a coup for you: to have Fondor be the official shipwright of the fleet’s first flagship.”

“Yes, yes, of great interest to us this is. And yet wonder I, why us? Repairs we offer for your vessels, yet no bid for new construction has crossed my desk in many turns.”

Krennic kept his smile intact. “How curious that they were not offered to you,” he said, knowing it to be a lie. “Fondor construction is esteemed across the galaxy.”

“Ah, yes, but the security and oversight. Never have we Imperials in our shiprooms. Ancient and respected rules, those are; sacrosanct." 

“There is always room for compromise,” Krennic said, and the words felt dirty in his mouth. “You already have some conversions and Imperial oversight for the repairs. It should not be an obstacle here.” 

The banter went on for some time, both of them toying with each other and offering nothing at all, until Krennic sighed. “Shipwright, let me be up front with you,” he said frankly, and leaned in. The chair did not topple under his shifting weight, which he took as a sign of providence. “Our own shipyards are groaning with construction. We can’t take on more projects. With these new insurgents so rampant, we’re looking elsewhere to build. We need the space. And with need comes opportunity, and it’s knocking at your door. We have the credits to make it worth your while, should you be able to make our schedules, and we’re willing to make accommodations for your privacy needs.” 

He held out a hand backwards and Jerjerrod, who had been standing nervously at his side, handed him the dossier. “Some of this is classified, shipwright. I share only part of it with you to whet your interest. You’ll want to look at the budget number.” 

Krel reached out for the datapad and Krennic caught the briefest of flashes of delight before that fake expression settled on top once more, and smiled to himself on the inside. Greed is the easiest bait, and sometimes all you need to do is an accidental flash of your cards to win a hand of sabaac. But in this game, only the house would win.  

“While we’re here,” Krennic said casually, “and while you’re considering our offer–I’d love a tour of your yards. Are all of them in space? What about your inbound or outbound cargo yards?”

“The orbital transfer ring?” Krel said, his eyes still affixed on the datapad. “Yes yes, in orbit. A tour, glad would I be to arrange.”

“It’s important to know we can do this securely, shipwright,” Krennic continued. “Jerjerrod has built a proposal to convert one of your fabrication bays to allow for the size of the ship we’re proposing.” 

Jerjerrod startled, then said, “Shipwright, it’s an honor to be here. I visited many years ago when I was a shipbuilder myself, and–”

As Krel leaned in, Krennic tuned out: the pitch had been made and the hook was sunk; now only it was the slow pull back from promises arranged until the Fondorians were far too deeply entrenched. And then would come the Destroyers, to monitor the facility: for their safety, of course. The insurgents made for a fine excuse.

And somewhere, in the depths of their transfer ring, was his missing kyber crystal shipment. 

A stray line of the conversation jumped out at him and Krennic frowned. “Can you repeat what you said about your shipping lanes?” he asked. “I wasn’t aware that the Bothans or Corellians used your hyperspace routes.” Corellia in particular felt unusual, this far away from their own shipping lanes: it might be the Hutts, or ghost freighters.

Krel looked affronted. “Perfectly legal this is. Every import and export stamped with a bill of trade, they are.”

“Excellent,” said Krennic. “I’m sure then you won’t mind our auditors reviewing those slips. It’s important we make sure everything is properly documented if we are to move forward.”

–––

When Krennic returned to his quarters it was late, yet a light on his commpad indicated an urgent message was waiting, so he trudged off to the only location on this entire rotating ship that could summon a secure outgoing line: his shuttlecraft. 

It wasn’t the first time he had to take a call in a dark vehicle while his guards waited outside, but it never got better. And when it was bad news–not a message, but an alert that notified the sender when he was at his access terminal so they could call him –it felt so much worse.

Deputy Director Brend’s scowling face snapped into the viewscreen. “Why are you at Fondor and not in Coruscant, reporting to Major-General Vassyl for debriefing?” 

Brend held up a hand as Krennic began to speak. “No–stop. I don’t want to know, I don’t care to know. I’m sure you have a perfectly sane, perfectly normal reason you’re flouting a direct order. Orson. The reason you are in the position you are in now is you had too much freedom.”

Krennic found himself temporarily lost for words, an experience he’d suffered through only rarely in the past. Brend hadn’t noticed: he was still charging forward, still ranting. “Yularen let you do anything you wanted. You’ve sat on the ISB Board, siphoned resources from us and the Navy both, and managed to avoid oversight from both authorities. It’s over, Orson, it’s done.”

“I have orders,” Krennic gritted out, “from the Emperor himself.” His eye twitched. 

“We all have those. And mine are to run this department without officers going rogue, and refusing to follow simple instructions. Report to Vassyl, Krennic. Or I’ll find a way to have your rank bars pulled.”

The line went dead. Krennic sat, fuming, his mind racing.

Brend had always been there, quiet, careful, helpful; always standing five steps behind Yularen, smiling, smiling, smiling; always with one hand ready to stab you in the back as he stopped over your corpse. But he was not important. He came from nothing: no notable family, barely made it into the Academy, rode on his C.O.’s coattails all the way. He had no connections that were not made through the Colonel, and Krennic bet half of them couldn’t recall Brend’s face, much less his name. 

Brent was not the threat, he was the bait, Krennic thought to himself savagely. It was Haas holding the shockstick here, Haas who had slimed his way out of Imperial police in the Outer Rim, was rumored to hold a Red File of blackmail on nearly everyone of note: sex scandals, skeletons lurking in closets, inappropriate finances, family vulnerabilities, notes of negligence. 

Krennic had purged any personal connections from his life long ago; all his secrets were the Emperor’s. His own dossier in Haas’s files must be redacted down to the verbs and articles.

He had to be patient. Brend was a creature standing on top of a house of cards; knock out the supports and he’d come crashing down. 

Krennic stared at the darkened viewscreen until he was sure the fury had faded from his eyes, and while he thought about what threads to tug on, he considered the strangeness of the call. It was so very unusual for the man to strut about, throw his non-existent weight around like this. Had Krennic’s own star fallen so low that the vultures were circling–or did Brend believe he was gathering the power he’d need to claim that chair for himself?

As deputy director, Brend had free access to the Ministry of Enlightenment. What if he was working to change his image, seed stories of his own inflated importance at Yularen’s side, what if he was creating the sway he’d need to convince the Emperor he was the man for the job?

His lips tightened, and then he punched in another number he knew by heart.  

Dee Shambo of the Ministry picked up immediately. “Director Krennic, what a pleasure it is to hear from you.” 

“Sub-Minister Shambo,” Krennic said with a smile. And it was a real one: Shambo had worked wonders with the Ghorman solution, weaving words as effectively as their spiders had ever woven any silk. The thin, mustached man beamed back at him through the small screen. “Shall we drop the titles? This isn’t an official call.”

Shambo blinked back at him and Krennic could see the quick calculation going on behind his eyes. After all, Ghorman wasn’t official either. “Of course, Krennic. This is a secure line; I am at headquarters. How may I be of assistance?”

“You’re already hard at work with the insurgent threat,” Krennic said, acknowledging the fact with a nod. “I’m curious if there have been any personal requests from the acting director of the ISB that have crossed your desk.”

A quick laugh, a crinkle of the eyes, and then it stopped. “You’re serious. You know I can’t share anything of any confidential nature.” 

“I would never ask you to break protocol,” Krennic said, his tone soothing. “This is a soft inquiry about if someone is using Imperial resources inappropriately.” He stressed the last word. “It would be pulling time away from the critical need–and would make the Emperor very unhappy.”

“I see,” said Shambo slowly. “I don’t have an answer for you right now.”

Even as he began to reply, Krennic’s terminal began to buzz with another incoming message; by the code, Krennic recognized ISB headquarters. “That’s quite alright, Shambo. It might be a problem for you, personally, if what I suspect is true. Consider this a heads up, from a friend.”  

The man on the other end of the screen nodded agreeably, and Krennic wondered if he really believed they were friends. Colleagues, at best. Shambo had always felt a little oily, a little smooth around the edges. His smiles lingered a fraction too long; even his silences felt focus-grouped. “I’ll investigate. Shall we have dinner, when you’re back?”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said, and hit the terminal to switch to the incoming call.

The tight blond bob of Tyria Korlis popped into the viewfinder. “Orson,” she said flatly. “Brend has just been in here ranting. What have you done?”

Krennic raised an eyebrow innocently. This was good news–and even better that Korlis pinged his encrypted line immediately after. “Done? Nothing. I’m sure that’s what got his jodhpurs in a twist.” He smiled as guilelessly as he could. “What did he say?”

The head of counter-insurgency ignored the question. “He’s implementing entire new levels of oversight on my work, Orson, and it’s because you’re flouting him.” There was a bite to her words.

He tried again, softer. “Brend doesn’t like giving up control. Colonel Yularen trusted us; I doubt he does.” He shrugged. “This makes our jobs so much more difficult, as you know very well. You’ve always delivered results; that is what the Emperor cares about.”

Her jaw worked, as if she was about to say something, and then it was a subject change: “There’s this nonsense about Major Partagaz now. Tell me you had nothing to do about this; it’s awfully convenient for there suddenly to be a leak that wasn’t under your command.”

“Do you think Haas would exonerate me if he didn’t have to?” he countered. “I’ve heard a little of this, from Lagret. What’s happening at headquarters now?”

“They dragged that ISB clerk back from detainment,” she said. “I had to sign off on the paperwork; she’s been in with Haas for days, now.”  

The dice had been rolled, then, were still rolling, but the pips were not yet up. His throat tightened in anticipation: it was a gamble, it was always a gamble, but if it worked . “Then we’ll know for certain soon,” he said. “I might dislike the man but he’s very effective at what he does. Tyria: why did you call? Just to rant about Brend? I don’t mind, certainly, but I know you and that isn’t like you.”

“He’s making moves like someone who expects to be appointed to the seat permanently,” Korlis said bluntly. “I wasn’t expecting that. And I don’t like it. Let’s have lunch.”

It was always a good day when his personal calendar started filling up. It felt good, after being on the outskirts of Imperial approval. “I’ll find some time when I’m back in Coruscant,” Krennic said.

–––

The next morning he called Jerjerrod to his bugged room and laid out the plan as the Major’s eyes glanced at the walls in silent rebuke.

“You’ll need to wrap up the negotiations, Jerjerrod,” he said, swiping to close the message that had popped up on his datapad. “There’s something I need to do in Coruscant.”

“Of course, sir.”

“The timeline is the non-negotiable bit,” Krennic said. “We will remain on schedule. More resources, more credits, more men: all of that we can do, and we will. We’ll tighten our review process for each stage to be in and out. But we’ll need this done in four months.”  

Tagge had given him a year, but Krennic was damned if he’d give the real deadline to anyone ever again. Four was next to impossible; eight might be feasible. But give them a year and any builder would take two.

“It’s an aggressive timeline for this build, Director.”

“That’s why we’re here, Major. You’ll make it happen. Give the shipwright what he wants–final approval on the skeleton, credits. We’ll need to bring in ISB for a tech sweep in the final stages, of course.” He smiled at the walls and spoke as clearly as he could. “I’ll sign off on as much as ten percent more than our initial offer.”

Chapter Text

Between the Imperial Security Bureau headquarters and Dedra’s quiet flat in the residential wing in the Upper Levels was a small marketplace, full of cafes and groceries and eateries. She walked through it every day, sometimes picking up a late night treat for herself at the cakeshop with the blinking bright lights on the corner.

Her favorite stop was for caf, and it was a regular daily indulgence. The black and bitter cup always tasted better than anything she’d had the patience to brew up at her apartment, or the ISB served in their sterile kitchens, and Dedra had long since given up on attempting to replicate it. It was a small, unassuming place; just a counter, really, with overworked but smiling familiar faces inside and no place to sit, with a faded sign out front that said ‘Maws.’

Dedra had asked once about the name, and was told that it was supposed to be Ma’s, but someone had misspelled it and getting it replaced was just too expensive. And so it hung, getting paler and paler as the sun bleached the words into nonexistence.

She had spent the night staring at the ceiling, after first wandering through her apartment and marveling that it still existed. It had been tossed, of course; but there was little to be found there that wasn’t of a personal nature. One rule she had faithfully followed was not bringing classified work home from the Bureau, and she’d practically lived in the office after returning from Ghorman anyway. The ghost of Syril haunted the apartment, and at first the memory had been too sharp.

It wasn’t worth moving, though; it was such a hassle, and when was there ever time? So she had avoided it, mostly, putting the single holoframes she had of him face down so she did not need to see his reproaching eyes.  

Whomever had reset the flat after cataloguing it had set it back upright.  

There were more important things to ponder than recriminations from long-dead partners, who really ought to have understood and gone along with the whole thing, and before she realized it, dawn’s treacherous light had found its way through the double-glazed windows and she needed caf after all.  

She arrived at the simple shop with a knot in her stomach that could have been dread or anticipation. But in the end it was curiosity that drove her there, like it always did: the drive to know. 

This early there was a line, and as the steam rattled from the machines behind the counter, she studied the two in front of her closely but could not spot anything out of the ordinary with their businessmen outfits and ponchos and heavy eyes. Everything felt so strangely normal, so everyday; this morning could have been any day out of the last decade.

When she got to the front, it was the same cashier she’d exchanged brief pleasantries daily: close-cropped brown hair around a round face and a gap-toothed smile.

“Black, no sugar, no room for milk,” Dedra said automatically.

“Coming right up,” the cashier said cheerily, punching in the order. And then she leaned in, and spoke a bit louder. “Oh, a bathroom? In the back.”

Never in ten years on Coruscant had Dedra used a public facility. “The back?” she repeated, and the cashier nodded, and pointed to the unassuming door by the counter. She hesitated, then took a step to the right and stared at it, and then grabbed the handle. It was slick under her palm, or she was sweating, but turned easily with just a bit of pressure.

When it shut behind her she was in a narrow corridor; brightly colored and fringed curtains of beads and pots hung along the wall, and containers of supplies were stacked up on one side, making the hallway even tighter. The noise and bustle and smells of the shop had vanished entirely, replaced with a humming, staticky sound, as if someone had left on a wave receiver but not set it to the right station. And it was so hard to see: no overhead lights, just a dim darkness that stretched out and terminated with a grey door.

She took a tentative step forward, then another and another. 

A black-gloved hand reached out from a doorway that she had not noticed and grabbed at her forearm, and she did her best not to scream as it pulled her into a side storage room, stumbling and face-to-face with Director Krennic.

His lips twitched at her surprise. “The places you bring to me, Meero,” he said. “What would you have done, if this was Haas?”

“It wasn’t going to be,” she said. 

“Don’t be so sure of yourself,” he said, chiding. “You’re being followed. And we only have a moment, so I’ll give you your orders now and you can be on your way.”

“If I’m being followed, why are you here?” she said. He was so conspicuous, despite being swathed in a gray overcoat. And if he took it off, those rank bars and blindingly white cape stood out like a beacon, attracting every eye, or causing them to avert. “This is not safe–”

“–would you have believed someone who said they were here on my behalf?” he said sharply. “Or would you have invented new conspiracies, tracing it back to Haas or Axis? You may be assured I am not here because I want to be but because I knew it was necessary. I very much hope a personal appearance won’t be warranted in the future.” 

The tiny room they were in did not give them much room to maneuver, and she wondered briefly why he’d chosen here, of all places, and how long he’d been lurking in a random storeroom waiting to grab her by the arm. His presence loomed, and she felt again that gloved hand grabbing her by the throat, the noose tightening, how her personal space was invaded. Perhaps she’d never gotten out of that noose; she certainly felt squeezed right now. 

But of course he was still talking.  

“I’ll be feeding you intel to share upwards,” he was saying. “You’ll still have to put the pieces together, but there is much to find.”

“I’m on probation, demoted, being followed,” Dedra said, and the twist in her stomach turned from dread to fury. After all, it was Krennic in the first place that did not listen, that had tossed her into Narkina 7–he was as responsible for her status as anything. “Why would I do a thing to help you?”

“You’ll be helping yourself, Meero.” Krennic said it was obvious, and perhaps it was. “At the same time, you will be repaying your debt to me.” He tapped the badge on her breast. “Do you want your third pip back, or not? I will get you there.” 

At her scowl and silence he shook his head, those thin lips pursed together whitely. “You won’t say no to me, not after saying yes. This is not optional; this is your assignment. Where is your rage against the bureaucracy that failed you, that sent you to prison? What I offer is a chance for not just reinstatement but acceleration. If not rage, then surely you still have ambition.”

She hated how he had merely glanced at her, and knew her inside and out. And yet, the path stretched forward, and it was all temptation. “Where do you want me to look?” she said finally.

The rest of the conversation was hurried: focusing on the shipping routes on the Rimma Way, which crossed from the Outer Rim, through Fondor, and into the Core Worlds, and instructions to track back manufacturers of circuitry and downed equipment. “You’ll find some interesting links,” Krennic said ominously. “We need a supply chain.” 

At the end of the hurried conversation, miraculously, it felt less like orders and he was a source; what Krennic provided was where to look, and why, and her mind spun in interesting ways. And yet: she wondered how much of what he was setting her to find was truth, and what was fiction, to tell the tale he needed to be told?

Returning back to the front of the cafe, she accepted the bitter black brew from the cashier, and stepped outside to the streets, a spring to her step and a plan already birthing into existence in her mind. But her eyes were attentive, now: she picked out the grey-cloaked walker that tailed her all the way to ISB with ease, and marked his face.  

–––

It took Dedra just til midday to realize she was not just being monitored and followed, but harassed. 

On entry to headquarters, her badge had not worked, triggering an automatic secondary biometric review and a tertiary pat-down; she endured it, standing with her hands up in the air as a stern-faced officer with bad breath got too close, his clammy palm at her back and sliding, sliding; and her colleagues walked pass with judgemental glances to the side and sly smirks 

Then her terminal began to chirp, requesting for additional supervisor approval after nearly every request. The first time it happened it was on a routine fieldwork file, and the alert notified her that the request had triggered an automatic report to Internal Affairs.

“What sectors are you requesting?” Blevin said angrily, the fourth time it happened. “I can’t keep unlocking your screen.”

“It’s your sector,” Dedra pointed out, “and this is the same report you unlocked for me earlier today. It just disappeared from my own database; I needed to confirm–”

“I don’t have time for your mistakes, Meero, don’t delete things if you need them. This is an ISB terminal and we can keep reports safely for up to a week before needing to purge them.”

She hadn’t deleted anything, and Dedra was entirely conversant with ISB regs. Likely more so, since she’d been drilled both on them and their weaknesses for the past week with the Chief Interrogator. “Understood,” she said simply, biting out the word like something vile, and Blevin turned his back on her once more.  

It was the mandatory lunchtime interview with an Internal Affairs captain that convinced her there was something else going on. The meeting itself was expected; after the previous day’s speech Dedra had assumed she would be called upon to point out the loopholes in regulations and requirements.

She was not expecting to be instead shown edited surveillance footage from her time interrogating civilians on Ferrix. Doctor Gorst, Salman Paak, Bix Caleen: she remembered her time on Ferrix quite clearly, the madness before the riot and the hot chase that led eventually to the discovery of a single name: Cassian Andor. 

“These are not the full tapes, sir,” Dedra said. By the Emperor, she was so tired of sitting in white rooms while men lectured her on what she should have done. As this one, and his four blue bars, sneered down at her, she thought savagely that it was a shame that regs meant he could not grow a beard to hide that weak chin. 

“These are the tapes we have,” he said. “Tell me: the information you obtained from this botched and sadistic interrogation: did it lead anywhere at all?”

It had, which was even more infuriating. Dedra sat and stewed and outwardly calmly recounted the many steps she had taken, pointing out the connection to Andor, and how Doctor Gorst’s methods had been praised to the point that his department had been scheduled for expansion.

“We all saw how that worked out,” the nameless captain said dismissively, alluding to the assassination of Gorst three years prior. He hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself. 

“I’ve been instructed to share details on the leaks–”

“–you’ll do as I say and answer my questions,” said the captain. “And I want to hear about Ferrix.”

By the time Dedra exited the interview she felt wrng out all over again, and it was nearly evening. She scowled at everyone she passed on her way back to Blevin’s office, and when she got there it was just in time for another explosion from her new superior about her shirking her duties.  

It did not help that there was nothing she could do about it other than nod and say thank you sir, very good sir, as you order, sir; she was radioactive at ISB and she knew it. A dark cloud clung around her; she saw clearly now what Haas had meant to do with her resurrection: she was an example of what not to do, a pariah that others could point to in the halls and speak about in hushed voices.  

She was never expected to bounce back. Why would they give her that freedom, after she’d been compromised? The limitations on her terminal, her dark shadow behind her as she walked Coruscant’s streets; the assignation to a superior who already had it out for her: Haas set her up to fail, even as he took accolades for repurposing and rehabilitation of Imperial resources.  

She was supposed to wander the halls like a ghost, then eventually, she’d be quietly reassigned to desk duty at some monotonous role, as befit her low performance standing.  

Dedra stewed over the injustice that had been dealt even as she tried desperately to finish her daily assignment despite having been pulled away for hours, hitting the keys to her terminal with angry, determined fingers. 

Behind her, Blevin stirred, then stood, his arms stretching out behind him as he worked out a cramp in his shoulders. “I’m leaving for the day,” he said. “If you get locked out again, I can’t help you, so don’t. And I want that report on my desk in the morning.”

“As you say,” Dedra said, distracted, as she stared into her terminal box. “This shouldn’t take me much longer.”

“I don’t care how long it takes,” Blevin said sharply. “You’ll stay all night if you have to.”

She did not reply, and when he left, and she was alone in the small office save for the green glow of the screens, Dedra sighed deeply.

When she was sure Blevin would not return, she punched in the lead Krennic had given her, and watched as freighter records from across the Rimma Way flooded onto her machine without so much as a chirp: data and data and data, the lifeblood of the Empire. 

She did it again, and cross-referenced against ship manifests going to the Core, and before too long she had a tidy list of inconsistencies that made her eyes light up and her throat turn dry. 

The second lead was just as good: serial numbers recovered from crashed insurgent ships tracked neatly to merchandise that moved through Fondor.

By the time Dedra had requested information on the third lead, a series of Imperial shipments that had been destined for Scarif but gone mysteriously missing, she was sure she had found not just a pattern, but a bug in the system. And the whole time she heard Krennic in her ear, whispering. “I’m your only friend here, Meero. No one likes a whistleblower. They’ll stare at you, smile at you, but they won’t trust you ever again. The only way you get out and break that cycle is if you do exactly as I say.” 

She was at headquarters until well after midnight, compiling a report. It was not the one Blevin wanted her to work on, and it would take more digging and many more late nights before it was ready, but she could feel it, something important, something wrong: like a live wire under her skin.  

Chapter Text

“You know, Krennic,” said Dee Shambo mildly, “when I started my little poking around I wasn’t expecting to find this.” He tapped the paper stack on the table between them. 

Krennic forced a calm expression back on his face to hide the panic swirling behind his eyes. “Of course not,” he replied, trying his best to collect himself. “Who would?” 

They were alone at the posh restaurant Shambo had invited him to, a few days after Krennic’s return to Coruscant. Wide windows splashed a scenic skyscape, a sight that summoned romantic visitors and elite alike to the jewel of the inner core; the food between them was exquisite, and smelled enticing, yet remained entirely untouched: his entire attention was focused instead on the thin, innocuous flimsiplast envelope containing information, supposedly, about the future downfall of the Imperial Security Bureau.

Flimsi. It was so old fashioned. 

“It was the leak,” Shambo continued. “There’s doubt that the ISB is up for it, even after the purge. You’re with the fleet, though. This could be good for you.”

He was not wrong, but in a way he was entirely incorrect: Krennic’s true power came from sitting on the fence between two departments, being beholden to neither, and being personally accountable only to the Emperor. With access to the latter blocked by the blue-skinned Mas Amedda, and the ISB potentially on the cusp of being shut down, Krennic might find himself with a new boss; perhaps one even less appealing to report to than Tarkin. Tagge was alright, if a bit smug.

No wonder Brend had been thrashing; no wonder Haas had been seeking to link Krennic’s failures decisively with the Bureau’s. Having someone to point to could save themselves; they were all scrambling to be at the top of the ship as it sank.

“The ISB started as the fleet’s police, back in the day,” said Shambo, then shrugged. “Perhaps it’s time for the Imperial military to reclaim it.” He said it so casually, as if the loss of face was something that could be recovered from. 

In a way he was glad he had chosen to dig up dirt on Haas and Brend, even if it came with this news. Krennic smiled politely, then held out a gloved hand, waiting for the file to be placed in it, and hoping there was not still a price to be paid. “I greatly appreciate your time on this matter, Shambo,” he said. “If there’s anything I can do for you in the future, I trust you’ll be in touch.”

The returning polite smile that curved that impeccably groomed mustache did not reach the cold brown eyes of the sub-minister of the Ministry of Enlightenment. “There is,” Shambo said, without reaching for the envelope. “Your shuttle’s flight plans showed you arrived from Fondor. Interesting choice; it’s been independently run for decades.”

Krennic’s flight records were highly classified; the comm-signal had been scrambled. He had known it was a risk to tap into the Ministry; they would want a piece of this pie, just like they did at Ghormann. And back then it had been at the Emperor’s order.

“I’d like to send a few cultural liaisons there, when the time is right,” Shambo said intently. “Perhaps build a new Museum of Imperial Progress, help educate the masses.” 

It didn’t sound like a big ask, but they never did at first. Krennic reached for the file himself and picked it up. “I’ll arrange it,” he said tightly. “We worked so well together before; it will be a pleasure to see what you can do at Fondor.” 

–––

The next week was consumed by attempts to get on Mas Amedda’s calendar. First Krennic sent an invitation, paired with a report on the status of the second Death Star’s construction.  

On time and under budget, he wrote in a flourish, glossing over the point that the timeline was his own, and he did not yet have a budget save that siphoned away from the ISB’s rolls. Lunch?

He stewed over the lack of response for a day, while picking through the rumors that Shambo had uncovered carefully, and in the privacy of his own quarters on Coruscant. Like most of his temporary domiciles, the residence felt sterile, like the inside of a particularly comfortable medbay. Krennic eased into the overlarge chair while flipping through the flimsi documents, letting his fingers enjoy the unusual texture; nearly all of the Imperial documents were kept on datapads or holodiscs.  

Inside a sordid story was sketched in a dry and emotionless tone. It added to the drama, he had to admit; Shambo did have a gift with information.  

The tale started with coordinates of unregistered ISB detention facilities, operating off-books; nothing unusual for the Empire but the scandal would be in its discovery. Then: lists and lists of names of people who had died in custody–names that could easily have found their way to a detention center like Narkina, a blatant waste of resources. 

His ally Tyria Korlis in Counter-Insurgency was not innocent either: entire divisions under her had been inflating arrest numbers to justify their increased budgets.

But even better than the information on the high council was the short and simple list of Tarkin loyalists: supervisors and majors and captains on the take, and how long they had been accepting outside aid. It was a sure sign of a fracture within the Bureau, of loyalties divided. Loyalties that he could now collect on.

There were precious few within Interrogations; Internal Affairs, however: Krennic would waltz through those halls tomorrow with a smile on his face. Major-General Vassyl was already on his side; now, Krennic could play puppetmaster.

Two days later, still no invitation to the Palace from Mas Amedda had arrived across his desk. Krennic knew better than to arrive unasked; the humiliation of being escorted off grounds would be too much, and besides, it was not as if what he wanted to discuss was for the public eye.

It was not the only task to complete–there were constant boxes to check, subordinates to keep in line, the frazzled Jerjerrod, calling in from Fondor–but it was the one that weighed most heavily on Krennic’s mind. If he failed here, he was doomed to be demoted to a deserted, derelict desk. His achievements would be co-opted by another, perhaps Tagge, perhaps Brend, perhaps Amedda himself. 

Getting back into the Emperor’s eye was critical, and Amedda held the keys. Krennic tried again, and again: sending not just continued reports of progress, but secrets cautiously coached in careful prose, then more desperately, confessions of concerns on conspiracies and finally, threats. This is the Emperor’s vision, not mine, he wrote. Neglect me at your peril.

When Amedda did not respond, Krennic silently stewed, then opened a line to Korlis. When he got her hassled lieutenant who informed him she was quite busy, he just set up a dinner, and on a whim, arranged it for the greasy spoon diner that he had once frequented back when he was a cadet at the academy.

“This dump?” Korlis asked when she arrived that evening, just moments behind him. She stared around at the glassy windows, streaked with grime; the sooty paddle grill; the high-top swivel seats at the counter. “I’ll admit, it is slightly better without all the patrons swinging their elbows at my ribs.”

Krennic had already taken his seat at the corner booth. That afternoon he had sent a sweep team to clear the location, an abominable waste of resources that Vassyl would certainly spend some time frowning about, his wide moustaches wiggling, if he’d ever hear anything negative about Krennic ever again. Krennic did regret not getting the troopers to spend at least a bit of time scrubbing the cooking oils from the cracked syntheleather. 

Perhaps the food would still be good. The dull-eyed cook, a tusked Gamorrean, had barely registered the threat to his person when the shocktroopers had moved in; Krennic was positive the pigface could fire up the griddle easily.

“Do you remember how many late nights we sat at that counter?” he said, then gestured for her to slide in opposite him. 

Korlis did, her lips tugging downward. “And the painful mornings afterward,” she said drily. “I think I’ll pass on the fried foods.” 

“Get the salad, then, or a caff. We’re not here to eat, just talk.”

The familiar environment, the hot cup: it took so little for Korlis to start spilling secrets like soup slopped over a bowl. Krennic lapped it all up, doing his best to nod sympathetically at the right beats, but at a certain point the secrets stopped and it felt more like commiseration without getting anything fresh. And as much as he liked her, Korlis was not a friend.  

“Brend is due for an upset,” Krennic said, eventually finding a gap in the conversation. “He won’t get the seat; I’ve confirmed it, he doesn’t have the political pull. IHe’s not even met with Amedda once, much less the Emperor. All we have to do is make sure there’s enough chaos in the ranks that Haas won’t get the nod when the time comes.”

“And who do you want in command?” Korlis said sharply. Her cup of caff sat between them. “Vassyl? Or are you planning a new rank bar yourself?” 

He’d considered it, but it seemed like quite a lot of work and he already had too much. “Vassyl would be a disaster, for the opposite reason Haas would be,” Krennic noted bluntly. “I need funding to be ready when I ask, and space to do what needs to be done. Haas would hover; Vassyl wouldn’t be able to wrangle. And I can’t be distracted by running the Bureau; I have bigger projects.”

He paused, then smiled, waiting for her. When her eyes narrowed and her lips stayed pursed, Krennic tried one last nudge. “I’d prefer someone I can trust. Someone I’d worked with before.” He shrugged, then stretched the truth a little. “And it’s not like I don’t still have some pull with the Imperial Ruling Council. I’m here this week to meet with Amedda, after all.”  

“I haven’t seen it on his schedule,” Korlis said. 

“You wouldn’t. There are some things that stay off even the ISB’s scopes.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, then she laughed shortly. “You’re trying to get me to ask. Why? So I’m in your debt later? I’ve seen the Joint Chiefs; that’s even more of a boy’s club than the Bureau. You really think there’s a cadet’s chance against a Grand Moff that I’d be welcome in that room?”

She wouldn’t be there for long, not if the ISB folded under the Fleet. A temporary, doomed leader, who would serve as a shield for him, even as she saw the department’s decline, and its end. “You would fit in very well,” Krennic assured her. 

“If you say so.” Doubt seemed embedded in every word.

The rest of their meeting went quickly, and when the basket of Garel tubers appeared, served in a greasy waxed cone, she didn’t touch them, and left shortly after.

Krennic stayed to finish the plate, taking off his gloves so as to better enjoy the salty and earthy treat, then ordered a platter of dewback sliders. When they arrived, steaming and beneath buns that resembled mushroom clouds, he ate them one by one, staring through the thin-paned window as he collected his thoughts. 

Eventually, his mind stumbled upon the answer, and it was because of how he had nearly lost the thread with Korlis. Understanding her base nature was the key to unlocking her, and putting her in his pocket. After all, she wanted power, but more importantly: to be seen not just as a woman but as the first and only in that very sterile, male room. 

Everyone else had their motivations: Brend wanted the seat he had served behind for years to finally be his; Haas was a true believer, and sought to excise and ostracise those he considered failures; the Emperor wanted his vision to be achieved: the ultimate weapon, the planet-killer. 

And what did Mas Amedda desire? He had power, already, in droves; the Emperor’s passion project was not his. He did not appear to be tempted by status reports.  

His position at Palpatine’s side was cemented so firmly in Krennic’s mind that the two were almost paired; Amedda had hovered nearby the Emperor even when he was just the minor Senator from Naboo. In all that time, in the changing from the Republic to the Empire, the Chagrian had made himself indispensable. 

But was he still? With the dissolution of the Senate, Amedda’s main source of power and influence had been suddenly struck down, eliminated. He was more fragile than ever, and the power structures in the Empire was shifting.

The last of the tubers devoured, Krennic pushed himself back from the diner’s cheap aluminum seat and went back to his quarters to write another letter: this one a little more toadying than he would have preferred, but perhaps one that would intrigue a washed-up politician who might be having his own internal crisis.

–––

The response to his most recent letter directed Krennic to a private shuttle, far to the outskirts of Coruscant’s city-scape and into the wilds, then deep underground. At first he approved of the secrecy, and then, a few hours into the trip, he wondered if he was being sent somewhere for a private execution.

Surely not, he consoled himself, as the shuttle shuddered underfoot and the blank-faced stare of the six masked stormtroopers opposite him bobbled at the movement. It would be far less expensive to just kill him here, and he’d be just as disappeared.

On arrival to the shadowy but thoroughly secure location, the heavy steel doors were sealed shut. Even the troopers behind him were not given access, but his code cylinder opened the security doors to a long, flickering hallway. Krennic entered alone.

His cape snapped sharply behind him satisfyingly in the snake-like tunnel, indicating a breeze or airflow from somewhere deep underground. Sterile white lights illuminated the footpath from below and above, and the gentle slope eventually led downwards, to a single grey door.

The red lights indicating the lock turned to green at the insertion of his code cylinder, and he braced himself before touching the handle. It could be anything: a firing squad, Mas Amedda, Lord Vader, Tagge–even the Emperor himself. One of his letters had finally stirred Amedda to action. Was it the threat? Was this it?

Krennic’s breath caught in his throat as his hand reached forward to his fate.

Inside was nothing. Just a quiet, wide, well-lit white room; not even a table, or a window. No banners, no witnesses, only a single data projector, as if entirely dedicated to surveillance, or logistics. On the opposite side of the large space was another door, and the red lights above it indicated it too, was locked. 

A brief laugh escaped his lips before he could stifle it, and then he stood, hands folded in front of him, and waited.

It was a very long wait. 

For the first hour, he refrained from checking the time. The second, he spent flipping through reports on his datapad, irritation growing inverse to his declining nerves. That he had been sent here to wait was clearly a deliberate slight, a reminder of his importance and place in the Imperial machine. But he still had a place. Krennic got through the majority of his daily briefs, wishing more and more for a desk, or, void take him, even a solitary chair.

The light clicking to green above the second door was the only warning he had before it slid open, and the hulking, yellow-robed silhouette of Mas Amedda. 

The blue-side Chagrian had never given up the colors of his homeland, just traded up for the intricately ornate staff that declared him the Grand Vizier of the Imperial Ruling Council. Its base scraped against the duracrete floor as he strode in. Amedda’s polished, sweepingly tall horns and long, rubbery tentacles resting on his shoulders made for an unusual sight nowadays, with humans dominating key positions of authority. 

“Finally,” Krennic snapped. “I needed to speak to you, Amedda, but the Empire runs on timetables–”

“Director Krennic,” interrupted Amedda. The stress was on his title, and a wash of panic swept through Krennic’s throat. “I trust my slight delay, of necessity to ensure our privacy, is not straining your capacity of patience. You had the gall in the past to ask for more time on so many of your projects.”  

Krennic started again, fixing a tight smile on his lips. “Grand Vizier, my apologies,” he said, tucking away his datapad. “I appreciate your time immensely. I respect the lengths you have gone to bring me here alone. I must ask: does the Emperor know we are meeting?”

“The Emperor knows all,” said Amedda. He shook his head, his horned tentacles swinging slightly. “You demanded this meeting, Director. Get to it.”

It was such a lie. The vizier controlled the flow of information to the Emperor’s dais, could turn Krennic’s successes into failures with creative delays of his reports. And he had sidestepped the question. So: it was time for the next gambit. “We are both being sidelined, you and I,” Krennic said slowly. “With the Senate no longer in session, you must feel it, the waning of your influence. You guard the Emperor’s schedule now, but the Moffs are who have profited from this power shift, not you. 

“I certainly feel it, at the Bureau: Colonel Yularen might be the last Director that had a vision. Now, rumors stir that the Bureau will be reassigned into the Fleet. The Empire is moving on from us.”

He spared a glance across the room to see if his words had any effect: Mas Amedda stood stiffly, blue-skinned hands clasped before him, his horns unmoving. 

Krennic kept to his script. “We are in a new era of power, and if we do not change with it, we will find ourselves as obsolete as the abandoned factories on Geonosis.” 

“You have new factories,” cut in Amedda. “Your future plans at Fondor have not gone unremarked.”

“And they are supporting the Fleet, yes,” Krennic said, nodding. “That goes to my point. Eventually, they will begin work on parts of the next Death Star.”

This got a reaction, finally: a sigh, and then a cold laugh. “Here we go again. Your first pet project took decades: delays, funding, broken promises, and then a flawed machine–”

“–it was only an idea when I started work on it,” Krennic said sharply, interrupting in turn. “I turned it from a wish into a reality. This time, we have blueprints, we have resources, we know what needs to be done. The next will be built in years, not decades. And the Death Star is the only way back into the Emperor’s grace. For both me, and you.” 

“I don’t need your weapon–”

“This is not a weapon. It is the Emperor’s vision,” said Krennic. He shoved his ego down a bit as it burbled and screamed inside of him. “His weapon; his desire. And we know only the people responsible for giving the Emperor what he wants will be remembered, and rewarded.”

Mas Amedda’s lips pursed, and silence fell in the room. “You are asking for a lot of trust in your ability to deliver, Director,” he said finally. “And you are correct here with one thing: the Moffs wield power, now. The Senate once controlled the purse strings; now the Moffs do. Even the Fleet is finding itself short.”

“So let’s infiltrate them.”

Amedda’s eyes narrowed.

Krennic continued calmly. “I have a candidate in mind. A Major; low enough not to threaten, senior enough to promote. He once served with the Moffs during the Mid Rim reorganizations. Knows the language; knows how to bow without losing his balance.”

He began pacing around the room, taking step by step in a slow circle as he gestured with his hands. “You still have some small say in who the Emperor taps for promotions, do you not? The Moddell sector in the Outer Rim; it’s just lost its Moff, and it’s far from a plumb posting.”

“Why?” said Amedda bluntly. “Sticking my neck out like this–give me a reason to try.”

“It comes down to resources. I have a build location in mind in the Moddell sector: an isolated gas giant named Endor, with nine moons. Far away from the trade routes, close enough to send pieces together to get built. Scarif’s in ruins; Jedha is burnt. I can’t built it right at Fondor, you know.”

“Giving power to someone else… that’s not like you. Or me.”

“We need a shield,” Krennic said patiently. “If it falls apart, it’s on him–not us. Give my man the promotion. We let him take the spotlight, sign the orders, deliver the speeches. When the Death Star is completed, we emerge from the shadows triumphant, hand it to the Emperor, reap our rewards. But until then: we need cover. We need the bankrolls, to know what’s going on in their councils. We have to diversify, Amedda.” 

This time the use of the familiar name went over unmarked, as the Chagrian nodded in agreement, his eyes not quite focused. “Very well; give me his name. I’ll bury the promotion request in a routine sector realignment. And–what is the mission’s name? Still Project Stardust?”

Krennic’s thoughts briefly flashed to Galen Erso, his smiling eyes when Krennic had agreed to that name, and his stomach knotted. 

“Not anymore,” Krennic said, not expanding on it further. “Now it’s Project Moonfall.” 

Chapter Text

There were twenty-four fields to fill out in every report submission form. Dedra knew this, because she’d had to reenter her data at least that number of times before the terminal greened out on her and then went black. She glared at the useless box on her desk and then stood up.

“I’m going to turn this report in person,” she announced. Going for a walk might center her, get her back on track. The cramped, windowless office she shared with Lieutenant Blevin smelled faintly of over-oxidized air and stress.  

“Hmm,” said Blevin, ignoring her as he stared into his own screen, then he started and glanced backwards at her as her words registered. “No, you won’t. I have to approve everything–”

“You did approve it. It’s the Rimma report.” 

“I approved the digital version. If you’re going to flimsi that’s not standard and I have to write a memo. Seriously, Meero, it’s like you’ve never done this before.” 

She pulled at her jacket until the wrinkles smoothed out. He was right, unfortunately; she could have done it herself, had done it herself dozens of times, but that was before her demotion. “As you say,” she said. “Today?”

“Tomorrow.”

“It’s urgent.” She’d been trying to send the report since yesterday morning; there was an opportunity, with the new blockade, but they had to move fast. And the hours ticked by like a countdown on a detonator.

“So is everything else I’m working on, Meero,” he snapped. “I looked at your report and it’s barely anything–a few shipments going missing–and it’s not even my sector. And you’ve left the actual tasks I’ve given you to last, as usual.” He pointed at her terminal with his right hand, not even registering that it was only flickering back to life now. “You’re on probation. If I were you I’d be a lot more worried about keeping your bars than impressing counter-insurgency about your teamwork.” 

This was not the first threat Blevin had made of this kind over the past month. They had started with a mean, gloating edge; now it felt like he said them simply because he could, and he seemed bored by it. It was true she’d avoided the data processing he’d assigned to her, but in truth the job was so menial she could spend half an hour on it and complete it.  

If she had a promising aide serving under her, she thought fiercely, she’d give him the chance to prove himself. She’d support him, and cheer him on when he got promoted. Hadn’t she done so with Heert? Mostly?

“Fine,” she said simply, and sat back down, where her jacket wrinkled up again as she slouched against the keyboard.

Five days later, the report still had not made it to the Acting Major Kael’s desk. First, Blevin took an extra day; then, it languished seal-stamped for extended review in the mailroom for another two. By the third day, Dedra was chewing on her own ankle and had taken to carrying around a copy and roaming the hallway, waiting for the opportune moment to drop it off with Kael’s aide.

When she tried, the darkhaired weasel snarled at her: “Not protocol!” and shoved it back at her chest, and followed it up with a pointer finger that stabbed her sternum. 

He wasn’t wrong, but time was not her ally. If they moved now, still just now, she might be able to prove the connection between the Rimma Way and corruption at the Fondor shipyards, a careful bleeding of Imperial resources and skipped tariffs. This was the quarry Krennic had set her to catch, and it was a rich one, glittering with the promise of profit. 

Dedra tried to explain, as best she could when she was shouted over, and eventually slunk back to Blevin’s office with the folder still in hand and her lips downturned.

At the supervisory board meeting, she’d stood, back against the wall and shoulders tense, waiting for the appropriate time to speak. Blevin waved her to silence twice.

By the time her seal-stamped report made it to the Major assigned to the Tapani sector, the optimal moment had passed. She heard rumblings that a blockade ship had been dispatched to investigate, which made her ill to think of: the insurgents would know the route was under investigation, and would be craftier moving forward.

The following board meeting, the results of the blockade were mentioned as a footnote: no anomalies were detected in a week’s worth of investigations on the Rimma Way trade route; situation listed within acceptable variance; severe delays to resource shipments for the Fleet construction at Fondor as a result.

Blevin seized the opportunity to write her up for it, his dark eyes glittering as he recited off a host of disciplinary marks on her record connected to the report. Insubordination, improper file dissemination, operational overreach–“You’re familiar with that one already,” he said with a sneer–and conduct unbecoming of an officer.  

–––

The next time she had a dataset that smelled ripe, she tried to be stealthier. It wasn’t her name that mattered, she reasoned with herself, it was the timing. She had learned her lesson, and besides, her accolades would come; her digital fingerprints were all over the data, and she could come forward. She’d get her dues. What was most important was catching the insurgents in the act, identifying them, stopping them.

That is what she told herself. This time it would be different.

Again the all-too-familiar pattern repeated: delays and denials, her deadlines dismissed. As the days stretched to weeks, it became more and more obvious that the longer she languished under Blevin’s petty ineptitude, the longer it was a surety she would end her career there, forgotten save by those who dragged her name out as an example of a failed civil servant. 

But when Dedra had arrived at her austere apartment one eve to find on her pillow a flimsi slip with a single word in blotted ink: “When?” she knew that she would need to come up with another idea, and quickly. Director Krennic had arranged for her to be pulled from Narkina 7, and he could put her back just as easily. That he had deigned to stop by her living quarters to leave her a message: he was not happy with her progress with the gifts he had given her. 

The thought kept her up at night, staring at the cool white ceiling as the lights flickered in chaotically from the Coruscanti hover lanes outside. 

When she returned to the office, she had a new plan, and it was simple: find someone in Investigations that was as hungry for recognition as her, and have them present the report, without her name anywhere near it. What she’d failed to realize was just how radioactive not just her presence had become, but anything she’d touched.  

Captain Lagret’s aide was the one to tell her. Vonn was the sixth person she’d approached, and the only woman. “Dedra,” she said gently, handing her back the datapad as white uniformed men swarmed around them in the tight corridor. “You must know why this won’t go anywhere.”

She bristled at being called by her first name. She didn’t even know Vonn’s. “The data is irrefutable.”

Vonn shrugged. “Then someone else will find it, or put it together. You truly haven’t figured it out? I thought you were smart. The only thing that’s special about you now is that the Chief Interrogator is watching everything you do, and everyone you speak to.” 

And so Dedra decided the best thing to do was burn the place down, instead. 

Metaphorically, of course; she’d taken blaster training at the Academy but never served in the field, that was simply ridiculous.  

She accepted the datapad back, the cool metal of the rectangle pressed firmly into her hands, smiled limply at the falsely sympathetic eyes Vonn made at her, and turned on her heel to stride back to her office, where Blevin reminded her that it was not her office, and in fact she was far overdue with his mindnumbing tasks, and would she just get on with it?

Dedra would. As she stared daggers at her terminal, hitting keys just a touch harder than they needed in order to register each keystroke, she wondered: what use is a department that is divided amongst itself; an intelligence bureau that covers its eyes when shown truth; a branch of the Empire that did not serve the Empire? The rot embedded deep in the bones of the ISB was not her; she was doing her job. 

She would drag them out into the light, like they deserved, even if it meant her own downfall. She had survived multiple scandals, what was one more?

Her next report was done in private, offline and disconnected from the ISB server. She wrote it in ink, itemizing every attempt she had made to bring the inconsistencies in the Rimma Way’s merchant line to light, the rising insurgency threat. 

Then: she made a list of names of those who had opposed her, scratching each name out in ink that blotted on the page.

They, all of them, even Haas: they all assumed she had no power. But that assumption was based on the belief that Dedra would not destroy her own chance at remaining in the Bureau to take them down with her.  

It was an unspoken rule, naturally: you didn’t report your fellow officers to Internal Affairs. Nine out of ten times, the informer, not the accused, was ousted or disappeared quietly; their office scrubbed and some new fresh face smiling from their assigned seat on the board. It was a dice roll, every time, and a meeting with Internal Affairs with a dossier like hers meant the odds were already weighed against her.

Internal Affairs was a death sentence, or close enough. At least, that was before.

The ISB post-Battle of Yavin felt different, somehow; the culture of undercutting and scrabbling for praise, for promotion, for position that she had thrived in prior to her short-lived downfall was still present, but now everyone was nervous, side-eyeing each other, pointing fingers. She had noticed it perhaps because she felt the brunt of the witchhunt Chief Interrogator Haas had led, but she was sure it was not just her. 

Every step in the hallway, every meeting: tension and mistrust vibrated through it all, and the slightest misstep would tip over that pressure plate into peril.

At the center of it was the sorely missed absence of the white-mustached Director Yularen, who died on the Death Star. He had led the Bureau since its inception at the Emperor’s behest and his replacement, interim Director Brend, spent as much time announcing changes to the Bureau as he did announcing progress on galactic security.

The insurgency was growing: the dissolution of the Senate had not silenced the outrage of citizens about Alderaan, or its jubilance at the destruction of Imperial property. In the Mid-Rim, it was not just pockets of insurgency, it was a full-blown war: she had access to the reports, she knew.  

And her data was indisputable. So what if the first blockade had failed to uncover anything? She had no oversight on that operation, and could not even access those files to confirm her suspicion that it was done improperly. 

The morning she went to Internal Affairs, Dedra made a second copy of all of her records and placed them inside the safe at her quarters. It would get her docked for improper file handling, again, but there was little she could do about that.

She also stopped by to pick up a treat for herself on the way in, a cake cut in such thin layers it was nearly all frosting, and topped with sugar and Cindril berries, so plumply blue they burst in brightly tart explosions the moment her teeth touched them. 

She would not have access to such cakes on Narkina 7.  

Her tongue was still tingling when she made the sharp left turn that led down to the reception desk of Internal Affairs. It was in an entirely different wing than Investigations and Interrogations, but off the main hall in such a way it was impossible to visit unobserved by curious eyes, and based on those that followed her path, her trip in would circulate not just to Haas but through the rumor mill before she was able to leave. 

The few short steps it took for her to stride down the hallway into the wide open space of the greeting area, filled with comfortable couches in the center and stormtroopers lining the walls, were far too few to make her rethink her actions. The datapad in her hand weighed nothing at all, yet felt like a boulder she had to push upward before it crushed her.

“Title, name, and reason for your presence,” said a brightly peppy receptionist seated at a low desk in front of a terminal. 

“Ensign Dedra Meero, and information on an insurgent conspiracy.”

“This is Internal Affairs, not Counter-Insurgency,” she replied, bored, her eyes steady on the terminal before her as she clacked at the keyboard. “Back through the entrance hall, third floor.”

“I also have information on ISB officers who have been suppressing this information.”  

Now she looked up, the cap on her head slightly askew, and fingers stilled. “Take a seat, Ensign Meero. Your name will be called shortly. Do not attempt to leave or you will be stopped.”

Dedra did not bother responding, just turned and sat down, her back railroad straight even as the cushioned seat threatened to envelop her. She placed the datapad and flimsiplast folder on the glassy table in front of her, where it sat silently.

She did not have long to wait. A smiling officer with four bars and dead eyes tapped her on her shoulder in just moments, and Dedra repressed her urge to jump; she had not even heard his footsteps.

“Come this way, Ensign Meero,” he said gently, and extended an open palm. “I will take your files now.”

In a matter of minutes, Dedra found herself seated on another too-comfortable couch in a room that felt less office and more living room; pictures hung on the off-white wall of landscapes; a knitted, colorful rug spanned out between her and the Captain, who had introduced himself as Davin, no need for formalities; and who now sat smiling, his cap removed and on a small table next to him.

It was easy to talk to him, despite his unnerving eyes: the casual hmmms and indeeds and go ons prompted more and more information from her until Dedra felt wrung clean of grievances.

And then he sighed, and tapped the datapad.

“I must confess, Meero, I’ve heard your name before, and I’m familiar with your accomplishments and your failures.” The smile directed her way was a sad one, devoid of sympathy, and Dedra’s back stiffened further. “This feels much like you tread old ground. Another mastermind, siphoning Imperial goods in such a clever way we don’t notice–”

“It isn’t that,” she cut in, and watched Davin’s face cloud over at the interruption, the first indication of some real emotion. “What is happening here could not be orchestrated by a single person. What’s important here is that it has now occurred on Rimma Way, the Hydian Way, and the Corellian Trade Spine.” 

She waited for comprehension to sink in, and when it didn’t, Dedra clarified: “All feed into the Shipwright’s Trace. Every single one of them: and then into the Fondor shipyards. Let’s put aside the tariffs and missing docking fees, that’s a minor inconvenience. What’s important is that this is happening. A known security gap on the trade route that delivers directly into every single shipyard, and critically, into this one where the new flagship is being built.” 

The cloud lifted, but the frown remained. Davin coughed officiously. “Of course. That is obvious.”

“It must be investigated, sir,” Dedra continued. Her hands were clammy, held together in her lap. “The Shipwright’s Trace is the main shipping conduit of durasteel, hyperdrives, reactor components, and yes, weapon systems: all critical components, all in short supply. We cannot turn a blind eye to smugglers on this line; if those serial numbers disappear, we’ll find them later installed on insurgent ships in the Mid Rim.”

“I get it, you do not need to go on. This list of names; this is why you are here in Internal Affairs.” Davin had returned to smiling in his eerie, inoffensive way. “Even in your own files it states a blockade ship was sent out to investigate, handled at the highest of levels, by a Major in your own division. No anomalies were detected.”

“Then those who sent it out must be investigated, alongside the leak,” Dedra said carefully. “The new data does not lie.”

“Being a whistle-blower is not a safe thing to be, Ensign Meero,” Davin said softly. “Those that need to know will be notified. In the meantime, you will remain here; for your own protection.” 

Chapter Text

“Tell me one reason I shouldn’t take this to Grand General Tagge,” snarled Krennic, stabbing his finger at the report in front of him with a gloved finger. “Or–forget the Joint Chiefs–why not the Emperor himself!–I do not have the words. That I had to find out about this report by accident. Haas, you’re so used to trying to bury things you’ve forgotten how this table works.”

Things had gone delightfully, wonderfully, gorgeously wrong in the last month. Even as the skeleton of the new flagship began to take form at the Fondor shipyards, delays had begun to crop up with shipments, and worse: missing materials, all from ships that should have been coming from Imperial yards.

All delays he had arranged for, carefully, quietly, and fed to Meero’s computer. The missing materials had never gone astray, but had been instead redirected to the Death Star build location. His careful breadcrumbs should have sent the ISB into a blood frenzy, had they been doing their job correctly, should have set off alarms he could have used to throttle Fondor and Haas alike.

So when his truly purely innocent inquiry to the status of one freighter had spiraled into chaos, lead to a series of discoveries, each hilariously worse than the last, and a buried report about a suspicious smuggling ring that had sat on an ISB clerk’s desk for nearly a week, and then to a nervous Internal Affairs officer and a mothballed, mangy Meero, Krennic seized on the opportunity to take the Chief Interrogator to task.

Even now the thin man dripped arrogance from across the table. “You’re not a member of the ISB high command, Director,” he bit out. “You’ve lost the right to demand free access to resources–”

“Free? Free? And what resources? This is about insurgents siphoning off classified shipments on the Shipwrights' Trace, stealing from under our very noses. When Tagge discovers construction on his ship has been delayed because of your little turf war! You’re really choking on your own recycled air if you think I’m not going to tell–”

“Peace, Krennic,” said Brend, whose tired eyes looked far more resigned than a senator pretending their vote still mattered.

He, at least, could see the writing on the wall: Krennic’s role at this table had always been as a liaison between the Fleet and the ISB, with one foot in each world and making sure both were moving together in lockstep. For someone who still sported an “acting” in front of his name, he had failed to convince anyone in the Fleet that his rank was more than stage dressing.

Krennic knew that the moment he stopped raging, he’d start laughing, so he breathed in sharply and then snarled back: “No, Brend, I think not. I don’t have time to calm down. I have to go fix your mess! The very least you can do, Major Vassyl–” the head of Internal Affairs startled in his seat, his mustaches wiggling anxiously “–yes you!–haul that Ensign out of detention and get her to point to the dataset that she identified in the first place.”

He pushed himself out of his chair, glorying in the shrill screech as it scraped against the tile floor, and how Haas winced at it, those pale eyes narrowing until his crows feet wrinkled. 

“Perhaps you’ve been right all along, Haas,” he said spitefully. “The rot certainly is ripe in this room and it’s past time it was cleaned out. There is only one thing that matters in the Empire, and you’ve forgotten what that is, haven’t you? Let me remind you: it’s winning. It’s giving the Emperor what he wants. And you’ve been playing games with me for months, pretending that it’s all in the best interest of the ISB, all while the Fleet has been fighting insurgents and dying, too, in the Mid Rim–”

“–that’s enough, Director,” said Brend sharply. “We’ve had great success working alongside the Fleet. Haven’t we, Director Korlis?”

Krennic had forgotten she was there. Her grey eyes darted back from Brend to him, and back again, and by her raised eyebrows and pursed lips, the blonde director rather seemed like she wanted to stay out of this tiff altogether.  

When she remained silent, Krennic seized on the energy to keep raging. “We’ll see if Tagge agrees with you,” he said, “or me.” He slammed the report onto the table, and then left the room and the ISB high command, as much as he could call it that, as toothless as it was against him, with a swirl of his cape.

He did love how it snapped behind him when he took long, quick angry steps, white and flowy, and well, he had to make a point. It would not do for any rumors to start that he started to smile the moment he left the room.

He waited until he got to his office to do that, and when the door closed behind him with a soft hiss, Krennic took a deep breath in to steady his nerves, let out a nervous chuckle that first echoed oddly and then was swallowed by the plushly thick carpets.

There was too much to do, and far little time to capitalize on this grievous gap in security to make sure the blaster bolts landed in someone else’s chest.  

But: first things first. Before he entered his encryption code, Krennic stretched his hands out upon the wroshyr desk, tracing the golden swirls of the grain to center himself, and allowed himself to feel just a tiny bit of hope. 

This would be a year of plenty, after all: it came after disaster and horrors, after hardship and disgrace. He had been exiled from the Emperor’s presence, considered a laughingstock by some at the Palace, even tossed into a detention block for a time to cool his heels. He’d seen his greatest achievement claimed by another, and then reduced to ash in the sky, and had to grimace his way through sidelong glances and a diminished reputation. But now, now he had the information at his fingertips that would turn it all around. He could turn this disaster, someone else’s disaster, into his rich reward.

The reports he had skimmed coming in from the Mid Rim had been dire: Grand General Tagge was leading an offense against an enemy that was nimble and quick, and went to ground swiftly when surprised. They had friends everywhere, it seemed; and hunting them in the skies above rebellious worlds lost the Empire more than it gained them.

But that would be quickly solved for. Probe droids were whistling through the outskirts of the galaxy even now, searching for traces of the insurgent bases, and rumor had it that a dark cloaked figure stalked Tagge’s command bridge and jumped at his say-so.

It was not only Krennic that had suffered embarrassment when the Death Star had been destroyed, afterall, or had to face an irate Emperor.  

Annoyed at himself for his delay at the moment of his triumph, as if he needed to prepare himself for a conversation he had been looking forward to, Krennic inserted his code cylinder and watched the holocomm in grim satisfaction as it flickered to life. As his call was routed through classified channels, first to a staff sergeant and then finally to the bridge of Tagge himself, his anticipation grew.

When the pinched, square face of Tagge appeared on the viewfinder, he was ready. 

“I have uncovered the source of our delays with your flagship’s construction,” Krennic said, without preamble, and watched as surprise and then annoyance flickered across Tagge’s face. “We’re behind my schedule,” he clarified. “We’re ahead of the delivery I promised you. But: what I’m about to tell you is bound to shock you.”

“Let me stop you right there,” said Tagge sharply, waving his hand dismissively. “I don’t care what the problem is, or was. Fix it; I don’t have time to know why, or who.”

This was not going the way he had rehearsed it. He needed Tagge to be outraged, to give him the slack in his leash so he could do what needed to be done, and so he could use it to humble Haas and reorder the ISB back into jumping at his say-so. He needed to tell the story. “It’s this bureaucracy,” he tried again. “They’ve–”

“Orson, truly, I don’t give a damn,” Tagge said bluntly. “I have too much to do here, and things are going pear-shaped faster than a faulty hyperdrive. Can you solve for it?”

He frowned, did some complicated gymnastics in his head for a heartbeat, and decided he could still spin this in his favor: “Yes, but I do need your authorization for a few things. An Interdictor cruiser, or better, a Destroyer, and soon. For the takeover at Fondor.”

“Fine,” Tagge said curtly. “I’ll check in later. Fix it, Orson, and get me my ship. I need it on time!”

“I have–” Krennic began, but the connection was already cut, buzzing back to grey static before he could get the rest of the sentence out. He frowned at the viewfinder in annoyance, all his nervous energy shook loose like sparks on a bad reentry into orbit.

Nothing had gone perfectly there, but a few things had at least headed on the right trajectory; such an aggressive military action like isolating Fondor was a stretch of his Fleet authority, and now that he could point up the chain of command, Krennic could commandeer a much more effective blockade on the Shipwright’s Trace. Who cared if there were rebels actually there–Interdictors meant trade would be stopped, and throttled, and without trade, Fondor was nothing but a shipyard full of idle workers. Nothing getting in, nothing getting out, except the shiny new pieces he needed for the Death Star.

And, of course, that new Super Star Destroyer whose sleek, dagger-length form stretched nearly the length of the planetary horizon, dwarfing even the clustered docks of Fondor’s shipyards.

He could deal with Tagge’s rudeness, Krennic decided. After all, the Grand General was a busy man, and he’d given him what he really needed: the power he required to seize command. It was an honor, truly, to be delegated such responsibility without oversight, and when Tagge called back and he realized how effective Krennic had been, getting everything together so Fondor fell into their pocket, he’d give him what he needed, surely, and then Krennic would be back on top. Where he deserved to be.

The next set of coordinates were well worn under his fingertips and by memory, and there was no intolerable routing through subordinates. He did appreciate that even after Jerjerrod had received his new rank, he still tiptoed around him as if he was a proximity mine waiting to explode, and always answered when Krennic’s code cylinder was identified.

When the lanky, worried face of the newest junior Moff of the Moddell sector appeared on the screen, Krennic smiled thinly at him and said, “Ah, good–Jerjerrod. I was hoping I would catch you before you left the Fondor shipyards.”

“I’m on the shuttle to Endor now,” came the reply. “I’m to take over–”

“–well, turn around. I’m about to send an interdiction ship to block all non-military ships on the Shipwrights’ Trace, and we’ll need someone at Fondor that the Guildspersons can shout at.”

That sentence hung between them for a moment, and then Jerjerrod coughed politely. “Sir,” he said, as if he was choosing his words with careful precision, “they could call you.”

“They could,” said Krennic cheerfully, “but I’ll be unavailable. I have other things I’ll need to arrange. Warm them up–what happened to that accountant we were bribing?–and tell them that it’s just temporary, until we have identified the smuggler who had been pilfering from our shipments.” 

“It’s not temporary.”

“Of course it’s not. We’ll be sending in the Fleet by the end of the week to militarize the yards, if not sooner.” 

The silence stretched again, and then Jerjerrod said, “Yes, sir,” and the line buzzed to static. 

It was a relief, to have everything be over. Finally, everything was under his command.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of calls, orders, waving his weight around in a way he hadn’t been able to do for months. Watching eyes pop open and hands salute was endlessly rewarding and cheering and by the time a sharp rap echoed on his office door, Krennic had almost forgotten he was supposed to be irate about the whole situation.

“Enter,” he called, and then let his lips curl up slightly as the blondly dour face of Tyria Korlis slunk into his office. 

She took her time, padding softly across the carpet with her lips as tightly pursed as they were before, during his shouting match, and took a seat across from him as he reclined in his chair. “That’s done it,” she said shortly. “Brend’s furious with Haas, Haas is furious with Brend, Vassyl has egg on his face. You nearly dragged me into this whole mess, too.”

“You say that like I arranged this,” Krennic said, dissembling. “This was not a report I doctored, Korlis.” He had certainly willed it into existence, but he would go to his grave rather than admit it.

“If you say so.” Korlis sat in silence for a moment, as if waiting for him to speak, then said finally: “I trust you haven’t forgotten our agreement.”

There was a yellow light blinking on his terminal, indicating an urgent message waiting, and Krennic’s fingers twitched. “Our agreement?” he said, distracted.

She frowned. “You said–”

“Ah, yes.” He smiled benevolently at her, letting her feel how much the power had shifted, how much was now his to direct. “I can put a good word in with Cassio. I expect to be sitting on the Joint Chiefs again now that I’m managing this Fondor offensive.”

“The Grand General is a busy man,” Korlis said pointedly, emphasizing his name and rank. “Don’t overplay your hand, Krennic, I know you can do that but not when it’s my neck on the line–”

“We’ve grown close,” Krennic said confidently. “He’ll listen to me.”

She frowned at him. “Vassyl will want to see you, too,” she said finally. “He’s trying to dig out that ensign you mentioned from where she’s been stashed; I understand she has quite the service history; it’s truly understandable why his team wouldn’t trust her. Vassyl’s always been good to work with; collaborative.”

Krennic let the words wash over him in a warm glow. Things were shifting his way faster and faster–everyone could feel it, see it. “I will do what I can,” he assured her. “But I am quite busy, if you’ll–”

“Of course,” she said quickly, getting up to stand and then leaning on the back of the chair for a moment, as if she had something else she wanted to say, then shook her head. “I know you’ve got the Empire’s best interest in heart, Director. You always did.”

He waited for her to leave before hitting the yellow button on his terminal. It wouldn’t do for her to overhear. But when the message was simply an order to report in to Tagge’s command vessel, Krennic frowned; it had barely been half a day, if that. Perhaps Tagge had decided he wanted the full story after all, he reasoned, especially after seeing the flurry of activity Krennic had ordered in his name. 

As he hit confirm, and waited as the signal was bounced through to lieutenants and staff sergeants and finally to the bridge, he braced himself with a smile at the screen. He’d handle it, he could handle Cassio Tagge.

When the screen flickered, however, it was not the square, smug face of the Grand General that stared back at him, but the slickly shiny black helmet of Lord Vader, and his stomach flipped. 

There was an aura about the Emperor’s bully man, a thick, intense fog of fear and despair that licked at the edges of Krennic’s mind whenever he had met the black-cloaked warrior before–and he had, several times, once memorably visiting the volcanic wasteland of Mustafar to brace him in his own den. It stripped away his good mood immediately, cut through every practiced story he had ready on his tongue, and the entire world narrowed to just the terminal, and that liquid black voice.

“Director Krennic. How remarkable you have survived this far.”

“My lord,” Krennic managed, wetting his lips. “I was to report to the Grand General–”

“He is dead,” Lord Vader said, in grim satisfaction, and in those three short words Krennic could piece together the choking final moments of Cassio’s life. “You work for me now. I trust you will not disappoint me as you have previously disappointed the Emperor.”  

“Ah,” he said eloquently, reassessing everything: his ISB intrigues, his position on the Joint Chiefs, his small fiefdom in the Fleet. It was all upended, now. He decided on the only play he had left: “I am here to serve.”

The helmet inclined a touch in acknowledgement; it was barely perceptible, but it was there. “Tell me, then, Director. What delays the delivery of my flagship?” 

Chapter Text

Mon Mothma was hard to read, but not too hard. Her hands were in her lap, unnaturally still, as if they itched to be elsewhere; her office was neat, set to radiate calm and order even after the chaos of the recent, rushed move to Kabal; her gaze was steady on Kleya’s, and unbothered, not as much as glancing down at the datapad that had been placed before her, a solid grey square of temptation.

“Thank you,” she said gravely. “I know you went to great lengths to make this happen.” 

Kleya had not taken a seat in the cramped little room that served as Mon’s temporary office, choosing instead to stand at the doorway, as if this was a casual stop rather than a formal meeting. It wouldn’t do for General Draven to suspect otherwise; Kleya had been on repeated thin ice and the rebel leadership was even more prickly this week, especially after they had been uprooted from their last base by a security breach.

“It was nothing,” she lied. It was certainly not that; a hushed, rushed mission to Coruscant, surveillance on a known family of traitors; it had been reckless, foolish, and something that Draven would never have authorized. Kleya smiled an apology back at Mon and gestured at the pad. “If you want me to tell you what’s on it, before–”

“–no,” said Mon quickly, then a soft, politician’s smile slipped on her face. “Truly, I appreciate your concern.” Her hands were not in her lap now; they had curled around the cool steel of the datapad as if a single wrong word and Kleya would pick it up, and leave.

She might. It had been understood, that night months ago, when Mon had asked Kleya for this favor, quietly, wistfully, over a glass of wine and at a too-vulnerable moment, that there was a price to be paid. Kleya had not set things in motion for a week, waiting for the inevitable call that would countermand the request, and wondered at how she might use this favor.

When no bashful former Senator graced her door in that time, Kleya felt at first a sense of relief, and then a thrill: finally, she had something to do. It had been a sour, strange year, after Luthen’s death and the loss of Cassian and Melshi, and she had not quite found her footing in the more formalized Alliance to Restore the Republic. It was both much easier now, and much harder, than when it had been a few, unconnected groups of insurgents whispering secrets on the radio.

At least then she was the one with the secrets.

 “It’s nothing,” Kleya repeated. “I understand.” 

She did, too; all the rebels around them did: this was a people that chose to sacrifice their pasts to protect someone else’s future, and for many it would be a future that they would never see. Some of the soldiers that she saw on base were little more than children; fresh-faced, eyes alight with optimism.  

Some of them had come with their families, husbands, children. Mon had not been so lucky; and that was Kleya’s thread to pull. “There is something else, Mon,” she said slowly. “Perhaps you can help.”

“Perhaps,” said Mon. It was such a guarded answer that Kleya almost laughed before she continued.  

“I have a lead on another spy network,” she confessed. “I’d like to help the Alliance, you know, but my limitations are growing. I have few resources; a ship, some friends. All I have are my connections, and the information they can provide. I think this would help me, and help the Alliance, too. I’ve been talking to them on the fractal radio for a while.”

“Are they sympathetic?” 

“I think they could be,” said Kleya, “if they were approached the right way, and by the right person.” She waited a moment and was pleased to see that Mon put the pieces together quicker than expected.

“Me?” Mon said, her eyebrows raised. The word nearly carried out into the hall; her eyes quickly glanced at the door, and Kleya turned to shut it softly, the old-fashioned hinges well-oiled. When it clicked shut: “That is a risk, Kleya. I don’t make housecalls, no matter the potential. I know too much; what if I’m captured?” 

Kleya smiled sadly down at Mon from across the table and waited for the excuses to dry up, as they inevitably did. She had been bought, after all. “My contact is on Bothawui,” she said, after Mon fell silent. “I’ll go with you, of course. We can take a shuttle; time it for when we’re shifting to another planet again, so you’ll know less. It doesn’t need to happen now.”

“You can mitigate risk, Kleya, but this is above and beyond–”

“Think about how helpful I could be to the rebellion if I had a true spy network again,” Kleya said, relentlessly. “It’s not for me, it’s for us. There’s only a few of us left; I can’t help like I used to. Like I should be able to. I have my radio, but they don’t want to hear from me. They want to hear from you, now. You’re the voice of the Alliance, the one who denounced the Emperor on the Senate floor, the one they hear about in whispers. I need you on this trip, Mon.”

It was so frustrating, to be cut out of not just secrets but to be told that she was not important enough to even generate them–she, she, who had sacrificed not just friends but a father, who had bled for it, who had lived a lifetime of stress and subterfuge amidst the Coruscanti elite. Mon should understand, but she did not; her fame was growing, and Kleya’s name would remain in the dark. Except, she supposed, on some ISB watchlist; that at least she knew for a certainty. 

She tried to pretend it did not bother her, but it did. She should be in the room with the Alliance leaders, should have a seat at the table, should be consulted by the High Command. Her radio had rung loudly with silence this past year. But Bothawui was a lead, and a good one, and a path forward.

Mon had been watching her this whole time, her fingers still wrapped around the datapad. “I will need to clear this,” she said finally. “If it’s worth risking my life, I need to know the specifics.”

“I’ll get you a mission dossier,” Kleya said. It was a silly thing, to put spy missions down in black and white where they could be leaked, but if it made this happen, creaked that door open, she’d play Draven’s game. “Thank you for considering it, Mon.”

When she turned to leave, she saw how the former senator staring down at the datapad, rather than after her, and smiled to herself. It had not been an easy thing to get photos of Leida, but the Sculdans were still holding parties, and where there was champagne and chandeliers, there were cameras. 

—

It would be nearly two months before Kleya received a summons to High Command to report on her proposal. In that time, the outpost on the lushly forested Kabal slowly transformed from a temporary hideaway to a true Alliance headquarters; the planet’s location on not one but two hyperspace lanes on the Outer Rim made it an ideal foothold in battle-torn deep space.

Amidst the shuffle and construction and military precision, Kleya found herself once again without much to do. She joined the pilots and the rebels during dinner, laughed with them around the campfires, and stood stern-faced at the morning musters, as orders were snapped out by one of the weary generals, Draven or Dodonna, and occasionally the gruff Rieekan. One of her wittier jokes won her not smiles but laughter, that by war’s end, Draven would have as much white hair as Dodonna, and a fuller beard.

She hoped that would be true, for it meant both would be alive.

Most of her efforts were spent on the fractal radio. The home device, in her and Luthen’s shop, had been destroyed a year ago, and the backup on the Fondor had been lost with that ship, but she was a tinkerer, and knew the comms transmitter better than any, and built another. The reforged radio was barely worth the name, but even its small console purred under her fingers every time she switched it on, even if there were few people calling back.

The morning she arrived to report, it was an intimate gathering, which could mean her mission was not being considered at all, or that it was considered so secret that only a few had learned of its existence. 

Mon Mothma offered her a slight smile as she entered, leaning forward over the display table as blue-and-white flickered up in a dappled pattern of light. “Kleya Marki, welcome,” she said, and gestured at the other two stern-faced men in the room. “Alliance Command has considered your proposal and we have a few questions.”

Draven and Rieekan were her two opponents today, and neither seemed particularly friendly; Draven in particular had been less than enthused about her reveal of a new fractal radio in operation a few months prior, and had personally visited her quarters to view it in practice before she had been allowed to switch it back on. 

At the time, he had asked why, and she had shrugged, and said: “Not everyone who wants to rebel is ready to reach out to the Alliance. But they can be anonymous, with me, and it’s safe for them to share. And sometimes, what they have to share is important.”

She did not mention the Death Star, or her role in its discovery, but that fact was threaded between every word she spoke, and it gave her some power. Not enough.

Draven spoke first, his hands on his waist as if taking her to task. “I’ve looked at your mission request,” he said bluntly. “It’s reckless, even for you. Senator Mothma is not expendable on vanity trips.”

“Draven, that is not what we had spoken about,” Mothma said; the softness of her tone made it not quite a rebuke, but the words were sharp. “My life is my own to risk, just as those in the starfighters and cruisers risk theirs, every day.” 

Draven’s lip tightened. “With all due respect, we disagree on that,” he said. “You’ve pushed us to this table, to hear her out, so let’s do that.”

Kleya waited a moment, weighing how to play the room, and if Rieekan would speak. He was the unknown here: a new recruit to the leadership, he had limped in on a ship after the victory at Yavin IV with a shipful of Alderaanians, shellshocked and sadeyed and with a burning intensity in his eyes.

When he stayed silent, just studying her with hooded eyebrows, Kleya nodded at them both, and spoke. “I would not risk anyone’s life without cause,” she said. She wondered if Mon had mentioned the trip to Coruscant. “I know things are different than they were, a few years ago; that information and leads like this should go through to Alliance Intelligence, rather than me. But the Bothans are an insular people. They do not trust just anyone.” 

She smiled as calmly and serenely as she could. “Think of this mission as a way to bring them into the Alliance’s net. I am simply opening the door.”

“Into the Alliance’s net, or yours?” said Draven, and the heavy disapproval in his voice was unmistakable. “I extended you an offer to join us, formally; when you said you weren’t ready, I understood. After the events at Coruscant anyone would need time to recover. And then I discovered your radio.”

Kleya kept that smile on her face. “My hands needed to be busy,” she said simply. “It was a distraction, getting it operational.”

“And when it was up and running you started to make calls.”

Rieekan lifted a hand to forestall Draven, who appeared to be winding up for a much longer, practiced rant. The Alderaanian’s tone was kinder. “You have a skillset that is undeniable, Marki,” he said. “You would be welcome in Intelligence.”

Kleya spread out her arms in a gesture of appeasement. “Thank you,” she said. “I have been thinking about it. I’ve been many things, in my time, but a subordinate, never.”

“Is that why? You’re afraid to take orders?” said Draven. “Everyone needs to, here. Even Andor did, eventually–”

“–If he had, I wouldn’t be standing here,” Kleya interrupted. “If he had, none of us would have. We’d all be dead, courtesy of the Death Star.” 

It was her one card to play, but was a card that got Draven’s eyes to pop and his tongue to twitch uselessly in his mouth. He spluttered a bit as Rieekan sighed. 

“We aren’t here to talk about the past, but your future,” Rieekan said. “I’m here because I’m for this little adventure. If–if!–it’s done properly, safely, officially, and with a minimum of risk. And if it comes with you: finally, and formally placed into our chain of command.”  

If her new boss was to be Draven, as was likely since he headed up what remained of the hollow eyed spies, as well as the newly formed Alliance Intelligence, it would not go particularly well for her. And so some things needed to be made clear, even if it meant Bothawui was lost to her.

“I see,” Kleya said. “General Draven, I work best when I’m given a long lead, so I’d expect that. I’ve been on both sides of undercover missions, and I won’t go into one blind. I’m not asking for special treatment; this is what I need. You know what I’ve done for this rebellion already; you know what I’ve sacrificed.” 

“No one has forgotten,” said Mon Mothma. “We could not.”

Draven shook his head. “A clear chain of command,” he said sternly. “Your information goes up to me–all of it. You’ll be welcome to run your radio and bring in new connections from the cold. But no side missions to Coruscant, regardless of who asks.”

Mon Mothma’s eyes flickered down to the table at the last in quick acknowledgement. 

“Understood,” said Kleya. “I’m not done. I won’t be relegated to some back desk. A long lead, and a seat at Alliance Intelligence, so I can help put together the pieces.” At Draven’s glower, she shrugged. “Anyone who knows what I’ve accomplished would understand why I’m there.”

“And why would you be there?” asked Draven.

Kleya put everything aside, and answered the question like she would have to Luthen, had he asked, all those years ago. “Because the Empire needs to be stopped. And I can help do that.”

Chapter Text

There were dozens of officers gathered on the bridge of the newly minted Super Star Destroyer Executor, but only one of them mattered. Krennic was all too uncomfortably aware that it was not him. 

Lord Vader stood apart from the rest, a solitary figure at the far front of the bridge gazing out to the starry beyond with his arms crossed behind his back. His long black cloak was eerily still, a waterfall of ebony liquid against the mirror-polished floor, and into the tense silence cut the steady, rasping noise of his respirator.

It had been six months of heads-down construction, followed by three months of teeth-pulling panic, in order to deliver the fleet’s new flagship early, and to its new commander. There were still some little things that were not quite correct, or complete: the hangar bays were empty, bereft of TIE fighters; personal chambers and the fleet command center were barebones at best, many walls left unpanelled and cables exposed; and half the crew quarters for the enlisted were still sealed off behind pressure barriers, without life support. They would need to bunk up two or three per, until it was finished; a little added motivation to get one's work done promptly.

There was still ample time to make all that happen. After all, the weapons were fully operational, and from the outside, the Executor loomed ominous and sleek. The slim skeleton crew assembled to man the ship were all that was needed to launch the vessel for its inaugural test flight, and by Krennic’s count there were more majors or captains than enlisted men at their stations, all eager to get a peek.

Everyone wanted to be close to him now, the fairweather hypocrites. Even now, they huddled behind him in outfits of grey and black, making sure to keep between him and Lord Vader. 

That polished black helmet turned ever so slightly, and Krennic could feel the little lambs behind him tense up even further, and his lip curled with disdain. “My lord,” he said, casting the words to be heard across the bridge. “The Executor is complete, and yours to direct. Ongoing construction to the enlisted wings will not impede operations.” 

The helmet tilted further, and while Lord Vader did not turn around to direct his words to Krennic, their cutting, clipped correction to his statement were admonishment enough. “Then it is not complete.”

“It is operational,” said Krennic with a confident smile that hid the thundering in his chest. “Weapons stand ready to be tested, at your word. The Executor-class has more than a hundred times the firepower of the Imperial-class: heavy turbo-lasers, ion cannons, torpedoes. As for staffing: reassignment orders have been issued to TIE pilot squadrons, and they will blacken the sky with their numbers. This vessel is an engineering marvel, my lord, and it is ready for the Mid Rim.”

Silence, and pauses, were most unwelcome in this particular conversation. When it stretched a little too long, Krennic was left with the dilemma: should he wait for an answer? Should he keep talking? What if he started, and Vader spoke too? Who stopped first?  

He clenched his jaw and waited it out, knowing it turned his smile into something painful, but it was not as if anyone was looking at him; the cowards were all at his back, and Vader was staring out into space.

Or perhaps he was staring at the Fondor shipyards, where the skeletons of three more dagger-shaped vessels were under construction. “You will complete the next three ships within a year,” Lord Vader ordered, in a voice that did not imply that the accelerated schedule was a choice. “Revise the schematics to include interdictor capabilities.” 

Building just one had taken fourteen months; adding new weapons would add to that timetable. And construction on the Death Star was dependent on moving resources carefully and secretly away from Fondor, and would surely push that schedule further. It was impossible, Krennic wanted to say. “Yes, my lord,” he said instead, and when nothing else seemed to be forthcoming, either orders or castigation or praise or even weapon testing, which he very much would have liked to see, just the quiet silence and the rasping breath that filled the bridge, he saluted and turned sharply on his heel to depart. 

The assembled officers made way for him immediately, shuffling to each side of the bridge like herd animals. The only one that did not was a cold-eyed human with the bars of an admiral who stood at the rear of the gaggle, one hand on a terminal where he was inputting a set of coordinates. Krennic graced the man with a sipid smile and let it drop from his lips the moment he passed. 

Admiral Amise Griff: handpicked to lead this vessel by Lord Vader in the wake of Tagge’s death, the new adjunct to the fleet’s supreme commander. Krennic had pulled what was available from the officer’s dossier the instant he had received news of the Admiral’s rapid rise and promotion, and had stared at a list of achievements and victories under one of the Grand Moffs of the Mid Rim territories. 

The power vacuum left by the deaths of the Joint Chiefs aboard the first Death Star opened opportunities for many, not just him, and while Krennic’s star had been tarnished by those events, Griff had somehow avoided repercussions for the rebel base on Yavin being in his district. 

Krennic was still unsure of where he stood with the man; he had not had any opportunities for a solo conversation. Even after he had rejoined the Joint Chiefs, it had felt like a different table: new faces, younger faces. 

As much as he hated to admit it, he missed the reliable old days when he could ring up Tagge, or even Tarkin; missed the days when Lord Vader was a mysterious, shadowy figure, not breathing down his neck, and directly in charge of the fleet; missed the days when the largest concern he had was if a weapon could be created, waiting for that spark of inspiration when staring at a set of schematics. 

His shuttle stood purring in one of the fully completed hangar bays, and the moment his boots hit the ramp, he barked out: “To Moonfall–now.” 

It would not be a direct route, and it would not even all be taken on this shuttle. Flight plans could be erased, hyperlane travellogs could be falsified, but the energy readings were irrefutable and trackable, a metric that must be controlled or confused so as to not lead eyes to the forest moon of Endor. Everything had to be perfect, this time; he had to be perfect.

While Krennic settled in for the ride, he reviewed paperwork: missives on raw materials being delivered from Sullust, the Maw, the asteroid fields of Gorse; reports on the prison worlds, where detailed handwork was entrusted; clipped, angry memos from the commander of the Kuat Drive Yards where materials were being siphoned.

He spent more time on the latter than he wished; Vice Admiral Varross had risen up through the navy’s logistics branch, not through command, and while bureaucratically brilliant, fell massively short on the subtleties that were needed in today’s modern age. It was a list of complaints, of outrage about moved resources, and petty squabbling over perceived territory.

His nostrils flared. All these new officers, and so few had any concept of the bigger picture, of the constraints he was under, of the demands he had to juggle. Deliver Lord Vader’s destroyers, or the Emperor’s Death Star? The only option given to him was both, and on time.  

Perhaps he could be a little late, if it meant the latter was delivered; the Emperor was who mattered, given the choice between the two. He would find out soon where they stood: the final missive he reviewed was from Jerjerrod, and it simply read: Ready for a walkthrough when you are. 

Thank the stars there was at least one competent officer on his project. Jerjerrod had been the beneficiary of all the resources, all the men, all the droids Krennic had been able to muster, and for three months now had been tasked with putting the bones of the massive space station together. Krennic himself had been consumed with the final details on the fleet’s new flagship, and it had been a relief to be able to simply send orders to the Moddell Sector and trust things were being done.

Krennic reached the end of his inbox and considered the likelihood he could catch some uncomfortable shuteye when the shuttle pilot turned round. “Director,” she said, “there’s an incoming call, marked urgent. From the Executor, sir.”  

He braced himself. There had been something wrong with the vessel, after all; Lord Vader had found his unfinished quarters and was displeased, or had test-fired the turbo-lasers and they had exploded. This could be it, the end in truth. His very own private, unmourned execution. He took a deep breath, then ordered the pilot: “Put him through,” and watched as a small image flickered green before him on the holodesk.

It was not Lord Vader. 

“Director Krennic,” came the tinny voice of Admiral Griff through the shuttle’s subpar speakers. “My congratulations to you for a most successful launch.”

Krennic reassessed, then fit a slight smile to his lips. “A brand new weapon for the Empire,” he said expansively. “It was my honor, and naturally there was no one better to be in charge of its construction than I.”

“Lord Vader was pleased,” Griff continued. “We are taking it to join the fleet into the Mid Rim as we speak.” 

Those were the dozens, and hundreds of orders Krennic had supervised and coordinated himself: the TIE squadrons, the reassignment of thousands of officers. “You don’t say,” he said drily, and was surprised to hear Griff laugh.

“Come now, Director,” came the amused voice. “I know what you have done here; I am giving you your laurels. Chin up. No need to be so prickly. I’ve been watching you at the Joint Chiefs; you have a gravitas that some of the younger officers lack. I think you and I can work together; find a happy balance between the fleet and the ISB.”

To his dull surprise, Krennic recognized what was going on: he was being handled. It was an unnerving experience, being on the other side of being wooed, and he was far from being won. “Director Korlis is in charge of the ISB,” he noted carefully, and Griff laughed again.

“Do you not pull her strings? Let’s talk plainly, you and I. I am on a secure line.”

“I am as well,” Krennic said automatically, his eyes flickering to the shuttle pilot still in earshot. No one irreplaceable.  

“I have a security issue for you to handle,” said Griff, still smiling. “Lord Vader gave it to me to run, but now that I’m assigned to the Executor, it’s become impossible for me to direct.” 

The sheer audacity of the man: he dropped a few compliments and then immediately swerved to give Krennic a job. And one passed down from Lord Vader himself, likely to have dire consequences for failure. Krennic found himself caught between admiration and outrage. 

Griff had continued without waiting, making assumptions. “There are a few insurgent sympathizers within our ranks,” he said, his tone incredibly calm for the greater implications he was making. “I have names. This is a delicate matter, Director; they are not to be disturbed in any way. We wish to use them to deliver incorrect information to the insurgents.”  

“In the Fleet?” 

“I am sure they are not just within the Fleet, although that is where my connections end. We must root them out, but carefully; only when we are sure we know them all can we be sure to be in control.” Griff hesitated, then smiled again, a soft, calming smile that would have eased another’s worries if Krennic did not recognize it as the same he gave to those he was sending in for slaughter. “I am trusting you to get this done, Director. I am sending a list to you momentarily.”

And then the message flickered out and disappeared, without so much as a goodbye.

Krennic decided to be outraged. How dare this upstart give him orders? What’s more: how dare he keep critical information on insurgent sympathizers away from the ISB? How dare he–

His datapad beeped with a high priority delivery and he did not even need to tab in to know it would be Griff’s list of names. Flipping through the list, his head started to pound even more. 

It was much worse than he had thought. This was the left hand not speaking to the right, was the very thing that the ISB had been created to prevent, that the table of Joint Chiefs at a minimum was supposed to prevent.

He inserted his code cylinder into the terminal with an angry punch so forcefully that the holodesk vibrated a bit with the impact of it, and waited for the message to be transmitted. At least there was someone else he could trust to handle this matter, he thought viciously, who would understand what it meant to be left out in the dark.

When Captain Dedra Meero’s pinched, all-too-serious face flickered into view, the blues of the projection pulled her face sallow and even more cadaverous than usual.

“We have a problem,” Krennic said, without preamble, and watched her eyes narrow and then flicker over to the list of names that he forwarded to her desk. “Your investigation may already be compromised.”

He could see her reading down the list, her lips tugging further and further downwards, the calculations running through her eyes, and felt a little better about making this new problem someone else’s. She would fix it; she was already in too deep. When she got to her own name on the list, her eyebrows raised, and Meero’s eyes returned to his. 

“Who has seen this list, Director?” she asked, carefully, cautiously. She had learned much in the year since her return from Narkina 7; learned to play the game; learned to serve the Empire and serve herself, as well. 

Krennic was fine with that as long as she kept being his piece to play. At first he had thought of her as a Dejarik pawn to be sacrificed, to be thrown in front of the onslaught as necessary, but now he deployed her more strategically: Meero was a Monnok, weak in combat but when properly placed, might win him the game.

“I will find out,” he told her. “For now: do what you have been assigned to do, and expand into these new names. Another division has overstepped its bounds, and may have bungled it in the process. There is a chance this is good news; at least we know now. Be circumspect, Meero–the security of the Empire is at stake.” 

The former prisoner knew that better than any. “Yes, sir,” she said. “You will have an updated report in the morning.”  

He was quite sure of that; she sent so many reports–perhaps too many–and they were all so redacted that reading them was nearly impossible. Krennic resolved to add a site visit on his agenda in the future. “Make sure of it,” he said, and closed the line.

Krennic spent the remainder of his trip to Endor worrying, and crosschecking delivery reports, and dreaming up ways to rush production on multiple projects. By the time that his first shuttle had rattled in to the small, unmarked transfer station, he had the bones of a plan. It would work, might work.

By the time he boarded his second shuttle, he had convinced himself it would never work, and he was doomed. He agonized over that for some time, trying to make two and two ten, before a sonically shrill alarm began to beep, and the unmistakable lurch of being caught in an interdictor’s net shook him out his reverie.

At the helm the shuttle pilot was frantic as the board lit up with blinking red and yellow lights. 

“First time?” Krennic said, half-amused, bracing himself by holding onto the strap by his seat. It wouldn’t be the last; once on this route, pilots stayed on this route. “Just wait; the tractor beam is pulling us in.”

There would be no accidental discovery of Project Moonfall’s location; interdictor Destroyers were set up in a careful, strategic net around the system, allowing in materials and men and monitoring any freighters in the area. 

Secrecy naturally meant sacrifices; when Jerjerrod had stepped into his position as Moff of the Moddell sector, he had spent months preparing the star system with a careful bombardment of military maneuvers, softening up the surrounding area to imply a major offensive against an imagined insurgency was afoot. Probe droids whizzed across the skies; TIE fighters patrolled even the sleepiest Outer Rim planets; interdictors blocked off hyperlanes.

It did the trick, and deterred all but the bravest smugglers or freighters. The gas giant Endor’s limited hyperspace access meant precise navigation was necessary, and it was close enough to the Perlemian Trade Route’s terminus that supply runs from Fondor and Kuat would go unremarked. 

Jerjerrod had worried a bit about being on the fringes of Bothan space, but nothing was perfect.

The Moff was waiting for him at the foot of his shuttle’s ramp with a datapad in his hand. “Director,” he said with a nod. “There is bad news.”

Krennic prided himself on his ability not to immediately demand information. “Let’s take this in the ready room,” he said diplomatically, and took the datapad from Jerjerrod’s hand before they got started, taking quick strides down the grey halls.

Screen after screen showed the harsh reality: they were sorely behind schedule. It was all resources, and men, and droids: too little, too few, and too old, and through it all a grim reminder of the nightmare he had agreed to just that morning. Either the Death Star would be completed, or the new Executor-class Destroyers. Not both. 

When the door hissed shut behind them, the quiet air of the ready room felt tense, but that might have just been the way Jerjerrod’s shoulders were held, as if the weight of the Empire were resting on top of them. Krennic did not bother to inform his direct report that it was.

“Your solution, Jerjerrod,” he said flatly, thinking back to what he said to Lord Vader just that morning, “is operational, not complete.”

Chapter Text

“Your reputation, Meero, is in the shitter,” Krennic had told her nine months ago. “You’d best learn how to use that to your advantage.” 

At the time, Dedra had hated him: his smug, sure smile that she would sacrifice herself once again to serve the Empire; his coolly critical words, casting her as the conspirator; the fact that he had left her out in the dark for months. 

Now she was fine with it. Not two, but four bars on her uniform; a private office at Fondor, overseeing the security of the fleet’s construction; and secrets, so many secrets. She collected them like little treats, turning them around in her mind’s eye at night to ease herself to sleep. 

It had started with an offhand comment made by one of the Captains of a Star Destroyer under repair. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for–” he had started, then cut himself off with a guilty, cloudy look.

Dedra had smiled, ignored the slip, and stamped his entry paperwork. “We’ll get the Doomspear repaired in no time,” she told him. And then she put Captain Drayen Hek on her list.

Three days later, while sending over a schedule update, she casually dropped an invite for a private dinner. “Just a few people you might recognize,” she assured him. “Of like mind.” Over the months, her quiet gatherings started to grow in size, larger and larger, until for the first time in her Imperial career it felt like she had friends.

It was a shame that they were all traitors. They gazed into her face and saw in it something they recognized: a disgraced former ISB officer who had somehow landed a sinecure as the glorified administrator of a shipyard; a malcontent; someone who might understand some mild dissatisfaction with the Empire. Someone safe to talk around.

“This isn’t a demotion,” Krennic had told her. “This is the most important off-site position on Project Moonfall.” 

Three years ago, in the warm embrace of the ISB, she’d gathered the bits and pieces of rumors together until it made up the shape of what had been Project Stardust, Moonfall’s predecessor. At the time she wasn’t supposed to know anything about it, not even the name: the Empire’s planet-killer, an advanced weaponry project disguised as an energy program. Today it was different: she knew everything, and to be welcomed into that untrusting fold now gave her a thrill that was hard to explain, not that she had anyone to explain it to. 

On paper, her primary responsibility was to repair, restore and build the fleet, using the resources from the recently nationalized Fondor shipyards. She met regularly with the increasingly disillusioned Guild of Starshipwrights, and liaised with the Moff supposedly controlling the Fondor citizens whom still labored on the planet. She moved papers around, barked orders to the Moff when he quailed in her office, and to the Guild she promised payment on delivery. She knew it would never come, and she knew they knew too, by their sad, pinched faces and their unvoiced struggles to move offworld. Dedra was tracking those, too.

Her secondary responsibility: siphon off resources and route them to Endor in a way that would never be discovered. She was good at this, too; knowing how data is analyzed allowed her freedom to birth new patterns, bury the lead, and keep this most important secret secure. It slowed progress with the Fleet and new ship builds, but not by too much, and where else to build another Death Star than pretending it was part of a new construction project that was much more widely publicized?  

But it was this, her third role, that brought her the most joy. Never before in her career had she been a confidant for the discontented. When the white uniforms of the ISB showed up in force, the Fleet stiffened spines, and while those two departments might work side by side, the officers of the Bureau were never fully embraced by the captains and admirals of the Navy.

Now she was one of them. Her grey uniform sported the pips of a Navy Captain: she delivered her reports with plodding accuracy; sat at the head of a table discussing endless logistical briefings about material delays; signed off on maintenance requests that would go to an overloaded desk manned by ensigns and and droids. 

She looked just like them, but she knew in her heart she was still ISB. And this was true where it most counted: on the books as the direct report to not just Krennic but the ISB’s new cool-eyed Director Tyria Korlis, who delivered critical counter-insurgency information to the Fleet. 

“There are leaks everywhere,” Krennic said. “There are spies everywhere. There are traitors everywhere. They may not even know what they have done; a loose-lipped Captain bemoaning his new route to the wrong sympathetic ear could bring down an entire offensive.

“So this is what you are tasked to do: You will smile. You will listen. You will monitor, and watch for connections. This so-called Rebel Alliance has been ahead of us for too long; now what we are looking for is not where they are, but who. And once we know who they are listening to, we can control what they see, so they don’t see Moonfall until it is too late.”

Meero understood information, understood data; it sang to her, it always did. 

“What are you smiling about?” 

The question shook her from her reverie, and Dedra turned from the window overlooking the Fondor shipyards to grace a smile at Tavin Arros. He was a regular at her dinner gatherings; a Navy Major serving in Fleet logistics, he had been one of Dedra’s first targets, and groused regularly about being drafted into the Navy after serving as a subcontractor with the Bothan syndicate for nearly a decade.

His green eyes were laughing at her even as the glass of wine he held went unsipped. “You’re usually so serious,” Arros continued. “Whatever you are thinking about–it looks like it made you happy.”

“I was thinking I was glad to be here,” Dedra said, perhaps incautiously, then waved her hand around at her apartment, at her dinner guests, the wide windows with sweeping views of the rotating rings of Fondor. “When I was in Coruscant, it felt like all I did was work, and my office did not have any windows.”

“That is one of the advantages about being out here,” Arros said agreeably. “Far less fine dining options, less art–”

“–not that old chestnut again, Arros,” broke in Jova Brentall. She was not Navy at all, but the former auditor of the Shipwrights’ Cooperative. Krennic had served her up to Dedra on a silver platter, complete with a list of gambling debts and shady investments owed to some Hutt warlord. But she was still a fine treasurer and much more cautious with someone else’s money: every credit was carefully considered. “You haven’t even bothered to visit the capital on-world, there’s great restaurants. Chef Dalen–you must have heard of him–opened The Hull and Hearth just last week.”

“Perhaps you are used to such heights as a single restaurant opening on an entire world as being breaking news, but I have higher ambitions,” Arros told her with a bite to his voice that faded on the next sentence. “Dedra, you must have enjoyed some of the best Coruscant had to offer–how long were you stationed there?” 

“The Upper City, on a cadet's salary?” Dedra said, and was warmed when the circle around her actually laughed. She was funny here. Or perhaps they just laughed because she was, at least on paper, their superior. 

It was like this every week, this small gathering of discontents, and every week she learned something new, drew out a fragment of gossip, traced it back to its roots. 

Tonight’s sensor-strand was about this new Lord Commander of the Fleet, and how some captains (Hek had stressed some) felt he had not earned his place at the head of the Joint Chiefs. Dedra had heard the rumors and at first had been very curious about this Lord Vader, right up to the moment Krennic had dropped a new file in her lap full of new names and redacted operations, and she had lost any interest in being in the black-cloaked man’s presence.  

Hek was a sour-faced man with a large laugh and a larger belly, and a thin moustache that sat on top of his upper lip like it was drawn on with ink. He was also fresh from the Mid Rim. “I trusted General Tagge,” he said. “It’s a shame what happened to him–I heard there was an insurgent attack and it blew out the glass of the bridge. And now we’ve got this new man, dropped right in from the Emperor himself to run things.”  

It was all smoke and mirrors; Hek had never even met his new commander. But it felt, to Dedra, that it might be something more: resentments grow easily, and if the chain of command was disrespected, it could open the door to petty rivalries. The delay of a message for just an hour could mean a Destroyer arrived too late to win a battle that otherwise was lost. Would this Captain sell out another in the Fleet, if it meant he would benefit by their downfall? 

He might. So Dedra smiled, and invited him to dinner, and listened, and monitored. Hek, too, had been on this mysterious new list. 

Tonight’s dinner was smaller, more intimate than other gatherings: just the four of them had been able to tear away. “I’m quite glad we’ll have your Doomspear repaired so promptly, Captain,” Dedra said, changing the subject. “Even if it means we’ll be losing you soon at these dinners. I hear the Kuat shipyards are glutted with ships in for upgrades. You’ll have to make sure your colleagues are sent here rather than Kuat.” She smiled slyly. “Or maybe only tell those who can hold a conversation–we can do without the officers who salute their own reflections.”

Hek laughed at that, too; his moustache did not move. “I know more than a few generals and captains I’d prefer to send to Kuat,” he said agreeably. “Far away from your pleasant company. Arros, you’re turning your nose up at Fondor City’s cuisine but it’s a far sight better than anything you get on ship when patrolling the Mid Rim. I’ll miss this. Your last report said next week?”

“Yes–unless you’d prefer a delay,” said Dedra. It sounded like a joke, but Hek’s eyes registered the ask. 

“I will visit this vaunted new restaurant if it means you will stop talking about it, Brentall,” Arros continued. He had taken Dedra’s place at the floor-to-ceiling windows, and was staring out them and down to the planet below them with a shadowed, pensive expression on his face. “Dedra, are you ever able to get to the surface, or do you spend all your time up in the Rings? Your company would be welcome.”

It was not the first time he had asked her, but it was the first time in mixed company. It made her vaguely uncomfortable, and she couldn’t quite put a finger on why. 

Arros had turned from the window and was looking at her, clearly waiting for an answer. 

She offered him a smile. “I’d like to be able to step away,” she said. “But you know how things go, better than any. As soon as the next Destroyer docks, it’s a whirlwind.” 

He shrugged, staring into what was left of the wine in his cup. “Logistics can always be streamlined,” he offered. “I’ve some ideas to make your life easier. And mine.” Tavin turned back to the slim Brentall, who was watching the back and forth with a smirk on her face. “I’ll send you the bill if it isn’t up to my standards, Brentall.” 

“You know I can’t put it on the books, Arros,” she said, chiding. “But they should be glad for the patronage. Just tell them who you are. Ingredients come on ships just like everyone else’s; you could make the life of their chef very hard.”

“Of course,” Arros said agreeably. “How could I have forgotten? Dedra, you must sneak away.”

One on one, perhaps he would share more, and Fleet Logistics needed watching. She hesitated, then: “I’d like to. I’ll find the time.”

–––

“The Supervisor’s outside, ma’am,” said the protocol droid assigned to her as a secretary. It was an unusual droid built directly into the reception desk, a relic from the old-fashioned Fondor Shipwright who had this office before her; the height of fashion a hundred years ago. 

She did not like using it, better to put nothing down where it could be recorded; and so instead of doing actual work, it announced visitors. Sometimes Dedra wondered if it resented her. 

“Let her in,” she ordered, and the door swung open to present a white uniformed Supervisor of the ISB, her short hair swept to the side and a scornful twist to her lip.

“Captain Meero.” 

“Supervisor Ozzel,” Dedra said mildly back in return, and smiled, and waved an open hand to the seat on the opposite side of the wide desk. “Please, take a seat.”

Ozzel sneered back at her. “This won’t take long,” she said. 

Dedra kept her expression blankly calm, and let her bad temper roll off of her. Lyria Ozzel was nothing but an annoying midge-fly: her last name and her Fleet parentage the only reason she had made it into the academy to begin with. She failed upwards, and was continuing to fail, and vaguely, she must know it about herself. Lyria Ozzel was very far out of her weightclass. 

For what Lyria Ozzel did not know about the situation had no idea that Dedra still reported in to the ISB. Ozzel was operating under the understanding that she had been sent there to keep an eye on Fondor, and Dedra’s control of it, when the exact opposite was true: Dedra had been tasked to keep an eye on her. 

“She’s a liability,” Korlis had told her, when the assignment went public. “She’ll slip eventually, given enough power. Let her.”

In Ozzel’s eyes, Dedra was a special kind of traitor: she’d left the ISB in disgrace and then kept going instead of having the courtesy of slinking away, never to be seen again. 

“This is your formal notification for the full freight tariff log for the last six cycles.”

“It is my pleasure to comply,” Dedra said. “If you tell me what specifically you’re searching for–”

“–that is none of your business, Captain,” said Ozzel, stressing the word with a clipped cadence. ISB officers were supervisors, or ensigns, rarely acknowledged by their military rank, and this almost certainly a slight.  

Dedra shrugged, tossed another question out as if she was merely trying to help. “The tariffs are managed by Fondor’s Shipwright’s Guild; any materials coming in from Imperial sources are already available–”

“Spare me the runaround. I want to see who’s paying what to move their cargo through the shipyards. And don’t start with any extra commentary about the workload, or how you might help. I’ve seen what you’ve done in the past, and I’m not impressed. You will open your books, and I’m expecting a report of the breakdown of shipments, vessels, and destinations before the next rotation.”

Dedra’s eyebrows rose. All of this was information she had to throttle, to protect Moonfall. What, or who, was behind this new inquiry? “Understood, Supervisor. Can you confirm this includes classified or restricted contracts?”

“Of course it does.” Ozzel’s hand was tapping at her thigh as if she was anxious. “I am sending a team to your offices momentarily. You will comply.” She made it sound like a threat, and if she enjoyed it.

“As the Empire orders,” said Dedra, and watched as the woman left her office.

It was a lot easier to direct data to hide something when she knew what was being hunted. There was just one person who might have a read on the situation. Dedra sat in the silence for a moment, then inserted her code cylinder into the commtable in front of her.

When Tavin Arros’s smiling face appeared on it, she offered one in return. “It turns out I’m available tonight,” she said. “Shall we say six?”

Chapter Text

Kleya had met dozens of nervous, shifty would-be rebels. She’d smiled and sipped her way through greetings on planets she’d never heard before, first sitting quietly behind Luthen and pretending to be nothing more than his overworked secretary. More rarely, she’d gone herself, and had been the point of contact for the student strike on Hosnian Prime that had sparked widespread civil unrest on that core world.

All those students were dead, now; the Empire had swept in with a big stick in the form of blasters and anti-riot droids, and six years ago had quarantined the Institute for Galactic Civic Studies citing anti-Imperial agitation and claiming that their peaceful sit-in threatened sector stability.

At the time, Kleya had recommended strongly against the peaceful alternative, but the bright-eyed children she’d been mentoring could not be swayed. So instead they had served another purpose.

It was a different kind of meeting she and Mon Mothma were having now. They had slipped into Bothan space using a ship transponder code transmitting as the distant family of a clan holding a remembrance feast, and landed in glittering Drev’starn, the capital of the cosmopolitan world. And then, bundled into cloaks and hoods, and with weapons at the ready–not that they would help, if this was a setup–they made their way to the rickety and decrepit elevator to which they had been directed.  

Mon Mothma had been taciturn the entire trip, her brown eyes clouded, and it was only now, one hand on the openair durasteel banister and with her hair lit by the flashing lights of a thousand adverts holoed across the night sky, that she spoke up.  

“How sure are you that this is safe?”

Kleya thought this a ridiculous question, but chose to instead smile calmly in response. Her eyes flickered upwards, looking for micro-drones or recorders; the site appeared clean, but it was hard to tell. “I’ve been speaking to them for almost two years,” she said carefully. “Information has been good; we’ve shared enough I feel this is legit.”

“But they wanted to see me.”

“They need a push,” Kleya said. “They have concerns. They want to know what type of person is navigating the ship.”

Mon hesitated, as if she had something more to say, her hand moving down the durasteel barricade into the elevator towards the summons key, but not pressing it. “I knew Senator Tir’Bara,” she said quietly. “Pleasant, soft-spoken. He sat four rows behind me on the Senate floor. Never influential, never obstructive; he chose to be ornamental, and so everyone forgot about him.”

Kleya pondered that for a moment; the Bothans were a powerful sect in the Mid Rim, but their might drew on their mercantile skills and throttlehold on trade lines rather than political acumen, potentially because of how xenophobic the Empire had become. It was hard to blend in the background when your entire species was furred and mammalian; they even had claws. “I do not think we will see him,” she said tactfully. “It’s possible, but unlikely.”

In the lift, finally, they descended, deeper and deeper, until flashing lights from the holo-adverts disappeared and left behind a dim violet emergency light on the elevator floor. The air grew cooler, then wetter and charged, as if threaded with static, and the indicator of the floor flickered from L-10 to -15, then -26, and then the whole carriage shuddered as it creaked down to L-47. 

The doors dinged, and when it cracked open, it was to the Veiled Market, and everything felt electric and exciting.

The massive subterranean cavern, carved long ago to hold ground water, now was transformed into a thriving market. High above them, the metal meshwork interwoven with vines formed a tangled dome, from which hung swinging signs flickering with adverts for starship parts, clan banners stitched with shifting fiber-optic thread, and the occasional cage suspended that seemed to contain glowing winged creatures. 

It was a chattering, noisy and lively place. The wide floor before them was a remarkable thoroughfare of commerce: small stalls carved into what appeared to be stone alcoves along the perimeter, and more makeshift merchants or stores in the center. The elevator they had taken was not the sole entrance; Kleya could see at least four others from their vantage point, although this was the only one with a guard standing right outside with a blaster rifle slung around his furry neck.

The guard stared at them both, yellow catlike eyes squinting suspicious and flickering up and down until he marked the simple red flower Mon Mothma had pinned to her cloak. Then his jaw tightened as he abruptly gestured to follow and turned his back to start walking without as much as a greeting. Kleya, used to this sort of thing, stepped up readily to follow in the shorter man’s footsteps, and after a moment, heard Mon Mothma at her heels.

It would have been easy to lose sight of their guide. He moved quickly, darting in and out of the crowds shopping. Everyone had their hoods up here, human, Bothan, or otherwise; Kleya even spotted a Mon Calamari out of the corner of her eye in a floatchair, arguing with a merchant in knit who had his arms folded in front of him as they bartered. And yet there were no Imperials to be seen, anywhere: it appeared to be a market completely devoid of the Empire’s surveillance. 

She let herself relax, just a bit, and then saw a sensor-drone whizzing above her head, green scanners collecting data, and then a second. When the unmistakable tingle on her skin of a static field scan and the smell of wet ozone, easily overpowering the spiced stimulants being hawked by a vendor on the main drag, she tensed up again. It was not the Empire who watched here, but the Syndicate, and walking into a predator’s territory deserved caution. 

The glittering city above seemed the facade, this grubby market was Bothawui’s heart. 

By the time their guide came to an abrupt halt in front of a shadowed doorway, Kleya had been so turned around she would have been hard pressed to find the elevator they arrived in. “Here,” he said abruptly, pulling aside the curtain to reveal a very high-tech security door, and placed his hand on it.

It hissed open to a dark antechamber.

Kleya had to duck down to fit inside the shorter door, built for the Bothans and not to Imperial standards, and once she was inside, she also had to hand over her blaster, and then hold up her arms for a patdown. 

“Surely this is not needed,” she protested gently, but allowed it, having no choice, and watched as Mon Mothma did the same, shrugging off her dark cloak to reveal her simple white dress beneath.  

Then, and only then, did a second door open and two Bothans stared at them across a small holotable, in a room built more for security than comfort. Durasteel and blinking lights lined the walls, and a curtain partially covered what looked to be either a private lift-tube. A quick glance confirmed that there were no visible recording devices in the room. 

Kleya smiled and ducked her head at them in greeting and when it did not register, she realized that they were staring only at Mon Mothma. It was not the first time she had to play this role, she reminded herself firmly.  

The taller of the two extended a clawed hand to the former Senator, and spoke in a musical voice that echoed her gilded garb. She had a clan symbol pinned to her cloak, offcenter, and Kleya marked it carefully, filing its strange shape and blue/green insignia for research. That nervous itch that came before a tense negotiation began to creep at her neck.

“I am Vessa’ri Fal’Kara, and I am quite glad you are here, Mon Mothma of Chandrila.” 

Mon Mothma was at her best when she had to make polite conversation, and she did not fail here, accepting the woman’s hand with a smile before turning to the shorter Bothan and extending a hand to him, as well.

“Drask,” he said shortly, and immediately crossed his arms before his chest once the formalities were done. The movement gave Kleya a glimpse of what he was holding in a gloved hand, a slate with a holo-flow of numbers pouring onto it in reds and greens. “And you must be Kleya Marki.”

“I am,” she said, and was about to say more but Drask was continuing without pause; her presence had been noted, and now she could be ignored. 

It was going to be one of those.

“This conflict between the Empire and your forces has thrown our entire sector into chaos,” Drask said without preamble. “We have asked you here so that together we can align our projections and chart a realistic course for the future.” 

Vessa’ri nodded enthusiastically at that, the gold earrings in her pierced tufts on top her head jangling softly. “The emerging market disruption has been quite dire. Deadly. The worst we have seen since the Separatist succession. And the conflict has spilled over into the Mid Rim and delayed so many of our merchant vessels; it is unacceptable.” 

Drask picked up the thread, his yellow eyes intent on Mon Mothma’s. “We understand you have some sway in this emerging venture, but before anything is done, we must evaluate its catastrophic risk exposure.”

It was a small pleasure for Kleya to watch Mon realize that by ‘emerging venture,’ they meant the Alliance to Restore the Republic. The politician smiled kindly at them both. “I appreciate your time, and your open hand extended in welcome,” she said tactfully. “You must know that the Empire has already assumed control of all our futures. 

“They dissolved the Senate, removing the voice of the people from the government; they have nationalized the Fondor Shipyards and seized Kuat’s output and every hyperlane checkpoint is now a chokepoint; they turned the peaceful planet of Alderaan into an asteroid field and then instituted martial law and curfews across half the planets in the Core Worlds. They did so without consultation, without restraint, and without any regard for the markets you steward.”

“Stability is the foundation of every market, and the Empire has made stability impossible. You claim risk: risk lies only in allowing tyranny to continue unchecked. I am here to ask for your support, not out of sentiment, but because a free galaxy is the only environment in which your sector’s prosperity can survive. If the Empire continues on its current trajectory, there will be nothing left to reassess.”

She had then in the beginning; Kleya had marked Vessa’ri’s twitch when Fondor and the hyperlanes were mentioned. But as soon as the plea had gone the way of idealism, her ears had gone still. 

Drask, on the other hand, pulled out the slate and made a small mark on it. At Mon’s raised eyebrows, he explained shortly: “Just Updating your risk profile.” He hemmed, a strange sound that was perhaps more of a purr. “When we asked you here it was because you are the voice of this new venture. I am unsurprised to find that you speak well.”

It was such an underhanded compliment that Kleya coughed to cover her laugh, and then when both of the Bothan’s eyes snapped to her, she lowered her hand from her mouth. “I assure you that any nascent military organization has a firm grasp of supply chains, tariffs, and smuggling corridors,” she said quietly. “In my time at Coruscant, I used the Quellor Run regularly. It is just one of many hyperlanes now lost to us as the Empire tightens its fist.” 

Mon’s poise did not budge an inch, but Kleya could tell she was plotting a new course. “What my colleague says is true. The Empire’s control of the hyperlanes–even those that are traditionally untaxed–has tightened faster than most realize. Entire commercial arteries have vanished behind closed military jurisdictions, with no notice and no compensation to the sectors that rely on them.

“Fondor is just one example of this, and it was a message: even a loyal, productive shipyard can be stripped, nationalized, or shuttered the moment it becomes inconvenient. None of this is instability caused by the Alliance I represent. It is weaponized uncertainty deployed by the Empire to keep worlds pliant and markets fragmented.”

“I am here because a partnership now could offer you a role in restoring predictability. The Alliance is not a band of reckless idealists. We are a coalition of sectors and systems that understand that prosperity cannot survive under a regime that rewrites the rules whenever fear suits it.”

The words hung in the air, and Mon Mothma leaned forward, her palms on the table, as if she was going to continue.

It might have worked. But it was not quite there yet. “Of course,” Kleya said quietly, “there are profits to be made in wartime.” 

Both pairs of yellow eyes flickered to her again, and Kleya smiled serenely. “We walked in your Veiled Market unharassed and unobserved by Imperial agents, and stand before you weaponless. Yet I would wager you knew every step and turn we took to arrive here. You observed us. You monitored us. You knew I had a blaster, and a vibroknife, and that Senator Mothma walked here unarmed.

“Bothawui has never been caught unaware. Your information brokers are without peer, your agents–” she allowed herself a quick, appreciative smile, “–all are remarkably effective at seeing what others miss. Even the Empire knows it. Especially the Empire.”

She stepped forward to Mon’s side, and tapped a finger on the table. They were not watching the Senator now. “War is terrible for most. But not for those who understand the importance of knowing when the gravity wells are, and how to navigate around them. And no one understands that better than the Bothan Syndicate.

“The question before you isn’t to support the Rebel Alliance; it’s if you will allow the Empire to blind you, to cripple your networks, to force your merchants to fly and barter in narrower and narrower corridors, or if you’d prefer a more profitable arrangement.

“There is a fractal radio on our shuttle,” Kleya continued. “I’m sure it’s already been searched, and perhaps seized. I expected that; it is a gift. You will find it a safer way to communicate with us than the methods we have been using in the past.”

Drask cleared his throat again, a low hemhemhem that seemed more approving than the guttural noise he had made earlier. “Kleya Marki,” he said. “We have some outstanding shares tied up at Fondor of which we need addressed. Perhaps there is something we can work on together.”

“Tell me more,” said Kleya, and from there it was easy to pick out the threads of concern that could tie the Syndicate into the web of the Rebellion: the under-the-table customs bypasses that should have been tariffed; the xenophobia that meant it was all a shellgame; and the need for a trustworthy front person to manage the operations with the new Fleet logistics operator.

“It will be dangerous,” said Drask. 

“I have been in dangerous positions before,” said Kleya. 

Chapter Text

The morning began with Tavin Arros puttering in her never-used domestic galley making breakfast. 

He had first insisted, then tutted at the state of the missing utensils. “How do you make eggs?” he asked, genuinely perplexed, which Dedra struggled to answer as someone who largely subsisted on black caf and takeaway. 

Cooking was done on special occasions, only, and she was not certain if the gregarious, pushy Navy Major with a suspicious past was worth her efforts in that regard, but she still watched him from her seat at the dining table as he bustled around, finding the right pots or pans, or at least something that would suffice, whilst a never-ending stream of commentary and future plans and gossip fell from his lips.  

She was not even certain if she liked him, but he had been pushy, and direct, and complimented her in a way that made her forget all her own mistakes. Broad in the shoulders, with shaggy blonde hair and light green eyes, there was nothing in him that reminded her of anyone else, at least.  

“Did you hear me?” Tavin said. When she turned to him, eyebrows raised, Dedra realized she had been ignoring him, choosing to instead stare out of the glass windows down to the planet, where the sun was just about to crest around the world’s curve, spilling light across the orbital shipyards in flickering reds and yellows. It was beautiful, serene, and so peaceful.

Tavin was none of those things, and had no respect for silence. He was frowning at her, holding a makeshift spatula in his hand. 

“I was distracted by the glare,” she said instead of rebuking him, and he accepted the lie as truth with a smile, and closed the blinds. 

“Can’t have that,” he said cheerily, oblivious to how closed in and dismal her apartment seemed without the view. “I was saying that I have someone I’d like you to meet. An old contact reached out; they’re hoping to restart some of their old routes, send more materials our way.” 

And just like that, Dedra remembered why she was here, why she tolerated Tavin and his talk, and that he thought of her as the Captain from Coruscant, and someone with as much of a shady past as he. “I haven’t authorized any new distributors.”

“It’s all above board, have no fear,” he said. The eggs were looking less than perfect; brown bits stuck to the pan as he attempted to flip what might have meant to be an omelet and now were clearly scrambled instead. She would eat when she got to the office. “It’s a returning merchant, so they’re able to skip past some of these new regulations. They might be able to help with some of those unfilled requisitions. Grav-ring braces, wasn’t it?”

Tavin Orros sat on Fleet logistics, and had access to unfilled and backlogged requisitions, but this was one report he should not have seen: it routed above his paygrade, and was destined for Project Moonfall. 

Dedra accepted the plate of yellow-and-brown mush with grace. “This looks good,” she said, picking up a fork. “I’d have to check on that requisition; I don’t remember it offhand. There are so many. If your contact can help, I’d like to meet them.”

–––

When Dedra arrived at her office, a cup of caf and a pastry in hand, she was greeted by a blinking light on her terminal: finally, a response to the report she’d filed to Korlis and Krennic on Supervisor Ozzel. 

The hawkish ISB agent had upset her routine for the better part of a month, demanding paperwork on tariffs, flight paths, requisition reports, and eventually Dedra had been able to sketch out her own path through the maze of requests, leading back to a nest of Moffs whose resources had been diverted without their consent. 

It would be impossible to explain why they had been diverted, and harder still to offer any sort of compensation, but that wasn’t her problem; her role was just to identify the problem and the potential leak.

She paged through the reply, squinting at the green glow of the screen, and deleted the memo dissatisfied. Gathering secrets to her hoard and sharing them for the accolades of her superiors had been diverting at first, finding the connections, sorting the data: but now it felt all she was doing was stuck in a holding pattern with no vector to break orbit, just waiting for someone else to arrive to take the credit. Even the air in her office felt stale, recycled; the same steps over and over, the same careful conversations, the identical rote work.

Dedra was not immune to the dull ache of boredom, and knew that it gnawing at her core was why she’d agreed to meet the Bothan ambassador on-world. It was still technically in her remit to collect and confirm potential leaks that could expose the Moonfall project, but it was still reckless.

She had managed to wrest the location, time, and place from Tavin, however; it was possible to plan for contingencies. A quick page through the history on the trade route and it became obvious what the topic would be: after the shipyards had been nationalized, several deliveries were seized, and payment stood outstanding on materials delivered for over a year prior. Tavin’s signature, in a lurid flourish, was stamped at the bottom, predating his Navy commission.

“We’ll be meeting in my office, very above board,” Tavin said this morning. “It’s not as comfortable as yours, but it’s best to set things in a familiar spot. My contact is Bothan and you know them: such a focus on scent cues.”

There were very few non-humans in the Coruscanti elite, and fewer in Dedra’s orbit, so she did not know, but accepted the explanation, and later ordered a dossier on the furry, cat-like race, and then arranged for security to be on standby for her visit. One could not be too cautious.

When she arrived on world, the cold, metallic of her shuttlecraft sleek underfoot, it was raining, a drenching downpour that darkened the sky, and Tavin stood beneath a weather screen on her docking bay wearing a blue suit and a mid-length cape that made him look shorter than he was. “There’s been a change of plans,” he yelled over the thunder, and waved at the two stormtroopers behind her. “You can’t bring them–not where we’re going.”

Dedra stood in the entrance of her shuttlecraft where it was still dry, hesitating. “And where are we going?”

“A party, at Jova Brentall’s estate. It’s fine–you look fine, uniforms work, there’s no need to get dressed up or change. This will be best; we can arrange for elbows to be rubbed without making it an official meeting.” He smiled, pouring on the charm. “Please, let me be your escort for the evening.”

In many ways, this was preferable: her mandate was to embed herself into society, and Jova was not just Fondorian, but the former treasurer of the shipwright’s guild, and a regular at her own dinner gatherings. She waved the stormtroopers back into the shuttle. 

“Do you have another weather screen, or will I get drenched?” Sometimes she forgot about weather, and how unpredictable it could be, dressing for a ceaseless number of mid-temp days in the orbital station. Her jacket hung gathering dust in her apartment, alongside a set of ISB whites in a garment bag, just waiting for the day she could wear it again.  

“Yes, of course–here, I have a driver waiting in my speeder.” 

She accepted his arm, and only got a little wet in the process, her grey uniform pebbled with giant droplets that stained her jacket darker. Tavin claimed to have thought of everything, he said, chattering on as they walked, and then during the entire ride: Jova would have members of the guild there, not just current, but older, and some familiar faces from Imperials in dry dock, and it would be good to be able to have a moment to just enjoy the night.

“All Fondor’s finest,” Tavin said, ticking off names on his fingers, and Dedra began to realize that this was not a small, private dinner, but something larger, and when the shuttlecraft pulled up to a mansion that reeked not just of old money but new, she mentally placed Jova higher on her watchlist. Already there were discrepancies in the books, and the nationalization of the shipyards had not gone entirely smoothly. Her eyes flickered to the doors, where private security stood innocuously, fading into the background, and to the cameras at the entrance.

Almost as if she had spoken her concerns aloud, her companion hastened to reassure her. “Don’t worry–you’re welcome here. Jova is a friend.”

When they entered, she gifted those she recognized in the crowd with a small, tight smile, and it did appear it would be a night to remember: the entrance hall to the estate towered with triple-height ceilings, blown glass windows, and it all glittered. She was not the only one wearing an Imperial uniform but it was not the norm, and there were more Fondorians present than humans, their overlong necks and slender torsos well-suited to the draping dresses and sheerly cut cloths currently in style. 

It buzzed with activity, servants carrying around plates of tiny treats and slender glasses of something bubbly, and there was even a band playing brightly sprite music in a corner. 

“What–” she began, turning to Tavin, confused, to see him laugh.

“Your first Founding day on Fondor, I have forgotten you are new to the world’s customs,” he said cheerily. “It’s nothing like they must have on Coruscant, but here they celebrate the day the orbital shipyards launched, all those centuries ago.”

Vaguely Dedra remembered it from her paperwork; the Ministry of Enlightenment was hard at work with a rebrand, naming it a “Productivity Heritage Day,” but it clearly had not yet caught on. 

“Dedra, I am so glad you could come!” cried Jova, gliding over with a glass in her hand. “I’m delighted I could pry you away from your office and your duties.”

A fragile flute of some fizzy drink had appeared in her hand, and that paired with the smiles of her friends around her, the closeness of Tavin’s arm on hers, and the dizzying feeling of being not just welcome but wanted broke through the haze of confusion that had threatened to overwhelm her.

“I had no idea this was such an affair, Jova,” Dedra said warmly. “I know you mentioned a gathering, but this is… delightful.” 

“Stay all night, please,” Jova said, her eyes flickering already over Dedra’s shoulder to new guests. “And look–we even have some offworlders! What a treat.”

Dedra turned, that unfamiliar smile still curving at her lips, and the next words on them were stolen by shock, for it was not just a Bothan who had entered, short and squat and furry, but Luthen Rael’s lost daughter: brunette hair swept back in an effortless updo, a simple yet finely embroidered blue dress covering her head to toe, perhaps even concealing a weapon, and a cool, unconcerned expression on her face.

“Captain Meero,” Kleya Marki said calmly, her eyes flickering to the rank bars on Dedra’s chest. “You have come up in the world since last we met.” She held out a hand to indicate her companion. “It is unexpected to see you here, on Fondor.”

She felt frozen even as her mind raced. She had to detain Marki, immediately. The secrets she could pry out of this insurgent spy, a direct connection to the Rebellion, who dared to even show her face so casually, so openly: a drink in hand, a smile on her face, how dare she be here. 

“The same can be said of you,” she said finally, knowing the words fell flat and hollow. “And in new company. You left Coruscant so suddenly after your father passed.”

Marki’s expression did not change, but something hardened in those black eyes. “He was mourned greatly by those who loved him,” she said. “But his work carries on.”

“So the two of you know each other,” said Tavin. There was something in his voice that caught at her, warned her that she was not being the friendly confidant she had pretended to be, that her mask was slipping. But Dedra could not stop from staring across at the slim brunette calmly holding a celebratory cup, and wanting to dash her head in. 

She could not call in the ISB, not here–and she certainly could not pull rank on the officious Ozzel as much as she would enjoy it; it would reveal too much. But there were enough Imperials around that she could find someone to detain Marki, here and now, discretely–surely it was worth a little risk. “We never did meet, directly,” Dedra said, buying time as her eyes scanned the crowds, as her hands sought out the commlink in her pocket. “And I only met your father, Luthen Rael, once. From antiquities to imports in Mid-Rim, Marki?”

Marki’s eyes were unphased. “As much as I enjoyed my work on Coruscant,” she said, “it was time to go. I see you’ve made a similar move: no longer with the Imperial Security Bureau, Captain? Was that by choice?”

Dedra would roast Bothawui from space. There was no time to call anyone for orders, she decided abruptly. Krennic and Korlis would be delighted with Rael’s accomplice in hand, and she’d gathered enough information on everyone present; the time for listening and waiting and gathering was over, it was time for action. 

She had the rank to do what must be done herself. 

Chapter Text

At first Kleya had assumed Drask, the brusk Bothan who had driven the conversation to commercial endeavours, was the one she had to convince, but as the days turned to weeks, and then to months, she started to see the shape of the matriarch Vessa’ri Fal’Kara behind all of his words. She may have been soft spoken in person, but over the radio her decrees arrived with a ring of finality.

“Their primary interest is not supporting the Alliance,” she reported to Draven. The gruff military intelligence general had not exactly warmed to her unusual methods, but the possibility of drawing in another ally, and one rich with not just credits but information, had him tolerating her a bit more. “What they want is their trade lines secured, and recovery of their losses. And they are especially focused on what has happened to their assets at the Fondor shipyards.”

The nationalization of one of three major shipyards in the civilized galaxy had sent shockwaves through the economy, especially since Kuat was already only producing Imperial ships. It was a sore point for the Alliance, who struggled to make do with the scraps, and hobbled starfighters together on the daily. That the Mon Calamari shipyards managed to produce cruisers and hammerheads was the only thing that kept the Alliance’s fleet in more or less fighting order.

“There’s not much we can do about their lost credits,” Draven said bluntly. “We’ve contacts in what’s left of the Fondor Starshipwrights and no one’s happy about what’s happening there, but the Empire has their grip around that planet’s neck.” He frowned. “The new ships they are building there are formidable, but unwieldy, at least. They keep building bigger.”

The first sightings of this new Executor-class Destroyer had sent Alliance Command into huddled, nervous meetings just last month, but concerns over it had been quickly eclipsed by new ones around the swarms of probe droids darkening the skies over worlds in the Mid Rim.

“We’re considering an offensive on the yards, to disrupt operations," Draven continued, turning to pull up a schematic that glowed green on one of the displays. “But we don’t yet have enough information to do it safely, and I doubt setting the yards alight will endear the Bothans to us.”

“It is not what they are hoping for,” agreed Kleya. “They need to be pushed into joining our ranks, not wooed.”

“We won’t strong-arm anyone into taking sides,” he said, a light of rebuke in his eyes. “This is an Alliance of equals, of planets that want to stand against fascism–”

“–choosing to stand neutral, to wait and see. That’s a choice,” she said. “And it’s a privilege most of us don’t have. Look. What they need is a reason to join us that is not found in their pocketbooks. They need to buy in to–who is that?” Kleya stopped, staring at the schematic Draven had pulled up. A woman with thin lips and hard eyes, wearing the greys of a Navy Captain, flickered at the top of the display.

“I won’t argue about this again, Kleya,” he said, ignoring the question. 

“Her,” Kleya repeated, pointing at the screen. “You should know her, Draven. That is Dedra Meero of the Imperial Security Bureau.”

Draven turned, squinting. “The name’s right,” he said, “but she’s Navy. In charge of the Fondor shipyards for the last year or so.”  

“She’s not,” Kleya said, feeling the ice of certainty in her gut. In her mind’s eye the recording of the woman in the trenchcoat played on repeat, arriving at Luthen’s shop, and she shoved it away, down. They had waited too long, stayed too long, but the reasons were all good, she’d listened to Luthen, they had been right to stay–

“You know her,” Draven said. 

Kleya inhaled sharply, and realized he was staring at her, not the screen, the clipboard in his hand motionless. “She was in charge at Ghorman,” she said, instead of the other story, that Draven truly ought to know anyway. “I’ve run into her before. She’s dangerous. And if the ISB is in charge of Fondor, then there’s something we’re missing here. It’s not just those new Super Star Destroyers, there’s something else, something worse.” 

“Alright.” General Draven wasn’t always on her side, but he was a good intelligence director, and he could see when she had her teeth in something that might be bigger. “Spend some time with it, submit a mission dossier, and I’ll back you.”

“Thank you,” she said, and then went home, to her little room in whatever world they were hiding out on now, and sat on her bed with its thin, blue blanket and too-stiff pillow, and stared at the wall, thinking of what she had to do, while trying not to think of what was, and how she could have done things differently.

The next morning she had not slept, but she had the beginnings of a plan. A week later, and several conversations with the Bothans later, she felt it was ready. A day after that, when she presented the dossier, handing over the thick packet with its alternate escape routes and what-ifs, and Draven sighed, and stamped her papers reluctantly.

“It’s all a risk,” he said disapprovingly. “I don’t like it, but if it’s to pacify the Bothans, you’re to go in, get out. Don’t be seen, don’t be spotted, just make contact with this informant and get the information we need. Understood?”

“Yes,” lied Kleya. “I don’t leave for another three weeks; the timing must be right.” The dossier she had delivered was incomplete, but it looked good enough to pass muster, and it might actually have worked. Her real plans would work better. By the time she was done with Fondor, the Bothans would have their credits and would have no choice but to join the Alliance.

He stared at her a moment, perhaps sensing she was not telling him everything, and then sighed again. “We’re moving our operations to Hoth; it’s isolated, if gods-forsakenly cold, and should be secure. When you get back, meet us there.”

–––

Her companion on the journey turned out to be a cream-furred, older Bothan by the name of Sai’lorra, whose muzzle showed streaks of silver. 

When she caught Kleya looking at her, she laughed, a strange yipping noise that filled the passenger compartment they were sharing. “I’ve made this journey more times than years you’ve been alive, girl,” she said. “Matriarch Fal’Kara seems to think you’ll be of assistance on this trip. We’ll see.”

“I will be guided by your wisdom, sha’keth,” Kleya replied, using the Bothan honorific for grandmother.

Sai’lorra showed her teeth. “Not my honor,” she said sadly, “but I serve the tribe in other ways.” 

For four days they traveled together on the commercial vessel and avoided the other passengers by staying in their cramped, two-bunk room, and the entire time Kleya slowly eked out the history of her companion’s past trips over hands of Sabacc.

“I know what you are doing, child,” the silver-hair said at one point, her clawed hand holding cards awkwardly so as not to scratch the laminate. “You wish to know if I am strong enough to do what must be done, if you can trust me. I wonder the same thing. Why would a human risk her life for my world? No Bothan leaps for prey that feeds another den; I do not see the profit in your choice.”

“It is not profit but revenge that drives me,” replied Kleya, after a moment. 

Sai’lorra still had not played her next card. “What have the Fondorians done to you? They are under the same yoke of oppression. Ah. You mean the Empire. Yes, there are many reasons to seek–”

“–it is more personal,” interrupted Kleya. “The Navy Captain that runs the yards; she is responsible for the death of the man I considered my father.”

She placed the cards down on the blanket between them, face up, showing twenty-two pips. “Emotions can cloud your judgement,” the Bothan said clinically. “Perhaps Fal’Kara misjudged you, and you are not ready for this.”

“You are right,” Kleya said, “emotions can overwhelm. That is what I expect; when the Captain sees me, she will not be able to resist trying to capture me. And when she sees you with me, she will include you in that manhunt as well.”

Sai’lorra saw the shellgame immediately. “I do not enjoy being bait,” she said drily. “I am too old to drop to all fours and run.” A sigh. “Back on Bothawui I wondered at how you would force the ledgers closed; this is not what matriarch Fal’Kara prepared me for. You have not been transparent with us.”

“It is not just a closing of the ledgers,” said Kleya, and then put down her hand as well: twenty-three pips. Sai’lorra stared down at them before picking up the cards to shuffle again. “In fact, it is technically the opposite.”

“That is why we go now to Founding Day. I see it, child, I am no wet-eared novice.” The cards snapped together as she shuffled, but her cat eyes were steady on Kleya’s.

“This does not change what we need to do first,” Kleya continued. “This Jova, she will do as you ask?”

“Ask.” Sai’lorra snorted wetly, her nostrils flaring. “She is deep in our pockets, and does not wish that to be known. This will appear to be a cleansing to her, and something she is happy to do. It will erase her name from the guild escrow entirely. She would do it even if she was not getting paid, and she understands why it must be done on that day.

“But, child: if this is the plan, then we will not be leaving on this vessel, and you do not look the type to choose martyrdom intentionally. I wish to see my clan again. You have an escape route in mind.” 

“A dear friend is waiting with a hot ship already.”

They landed on Fondor without fanfare, just two passengers disembarking during the height of the season. They waited to depart until the crush of life surrounded them, chattering and loud and cheerfully anonymous, and the quietly offered envelope of credits ensured no records would be kept on the ship’s manifest. 

Every step was practiced, every side street prepared for, and yet there were surprises: a new restaurant had a line of would-be diners outside, and caused a detour; a Rodian just outside the shipport bumped into Sai’lorra, and shouted racist abuse at her as they rushed away, hoping not to draw more curious eyes; and most importantly, the port itself was now watched: Imperial seeker droids buzzed above, darting to and fro, recording faces.

Cloaks pulled up over their heads, small valises in their hands, by the time they made their way to the safehouse, Kleya’s heart was racing. Sai’lorra, despite the encounter with the Rodian, seemed unruffled. “I thought you were used to this, my dear,” she said, inspecting the bare cabinets of the small kitchen. “Tsk, tsk: I did think we had left something to eat; we will have to shop.” 

The apartment was on the third floor of an unremarkable building, tucked in the corner. Kleya had been initially reluctant to use the Bothan’s connections for this journey, but the alternative had been not to go. Despite herself, she approved of it: humble, simple, yet everything they needed was at their fingertips.

And the plan was simple, as plans go: funds due to the Bothan syndicate were frozen by the Empire. It was an accounting error, that was all. So why not make it an accounting problem?

At the end of the year, at the height of the Founding Day celebrations, the ledgers were officially signed and ratified, to great ceremony. The books would be closed, confirmed and audited the following morning at market’s open, on the official “new year,” and during that brief window of time, between the closing of the books and the reopening them that next morning, the syndicate’s frozen funds would be changed from an Empire asset from one that was owned by the Fondor Guide of Starshipwrights. 

The assets would still be frozen. The misclassification would be a clerical error, and the next morning it would be caught and corrected, and those frozen assets then returned to the Empire; the only change would be that it would be then stripped of names and anonymized. 

After all, that was why there were checks and balances: no funds would be released overnight. No funds could be, not unless something else happened to force the guild systems to process an automatic transfer. Funds would not move during the market’s close without an override. 

To Jova Brenthall, the experienced Treasurer, the reason Sai’lorra was here would be to orchestrate this simplest, innocuous asset transfer, the smallest of ways of erasing her name from the records, of cleaning the money. It was easily done, buried deep in the year-end books, and would be in everyone’s best interest. 

To Tavin Arros, who ten years ago had served as the syndicate’s man on the ground, the reason Sai’lorra was here was to plead for the release of the frozen funds, and that was something only Dedra Meero could authorize. 

To the Bothans, the reason Kleya and Sai’lorra were here was to not just move the frozen assets around, but to thaw them entirely. One such way would be to do so officially, with Meero stamping off papers with a smile; the other way, which Kleya had convinced them, would be to trick her into releasing them despite herself.

To Kleya Marki, the reason she was there was to face the woman she blamed for her adopted father’s death. To stare her down, to mock her, and then to disappear. It would be endlessly satisfying to do it again, and even more satisfying to know that her mere presence would be the trigger for the plan as a whole–not only forcing the funds to return to the Bothan’s coffers, but forcing them to join the Alliance, for they would have no choice.

She was looking forward to it.

“I can’t imagine she’ll be able to do too much, but Captain Meero is a reasonable woman,” said Tavin Arros. He sat across from them, at the shabby kitchen table, a frown on his face. “Sympathetic. My advice is that it’s about getting the ask to her in the right way. As an equal, not as a supplicant.” 

Today, Arros was an Imperial officer; an affable, friendly hulk of a man, and with the uniform came that smug, assured smile that Kleya itched to slap. Instead, she sat back, and watched, as Sai’lorra smiled and purred and reminded him that the frozen assets included his own, offworld account. It was in his best interest, his future interest, to help.

“These frozen assets distress us greatly, saer Arros,” Sai’lorra reminded him, her clawed hand wrapped around a cup of tea. “As soon as they are resolved, your own account on Bothawui will reflect it. As for the Captain, I appreciate your help and your knowledge about her temperament. A personal plea; that I can do. I will be in attendance at Treasurer Jova Brenthall’s  Founding Day party in two days.”

Arros hesitated, but Kleya had seen that expression on men in the past: a low burn of greed that outweighed caution. “I will get her there.”

–––

The morning of the party, they trashed the place. Electronics were pulled out of the wall, wires snipped; stacks of flimsi were set alight in the oven, and disintegrated; acid was poured over the radio. Kleya did it methodically, with smooth and long practiced movements, and Sai’lorra followed suit, clicking her tongue against her teeth in disapproval.

“We might come back,” she said. “This might go wrong, and we might need all this.”

“We stick to the plan,” said Kleya. “If we do not leave from the party, we’ll lose our window.”

“If we have destroyed our place here and this does not work, child, the matriarch will be vexed.”

“All we need to do is meet Dedra Meero at the party,” Kleya replied.

Jova Brentall’s estate, located in Old Fondor, would be central to their escape. Unlike the city central, or more remote, isolated locations preferred by offworlders and the Empire, that part of the planet had been built over the original ship construction sites that made Fondor famous, long before the guild had expanded to the sky in their orbital stations.

And so it was home to not just old money, but old (and closed) atmospheric control zones, old service corridors, old maintenance and staff transit routes. Most importantly, the estates, fashionably built on top of factories to provide sweeping views of the planet from its highest altitude, used localized heat sinks to stabilize the surface environment. Just one heat sink malfunctioning would vent waste heat upward in giant plumes; it was a common enough occurrence, and never remarked upon.

It was that heat shimmer and infrared noise that would hide their escape, at the right time, and Vel was waiting with a shuttle to take them off-world. 

There was just one thing left to do: enrage Dedra Meero.

Chapter Text

“No longer with the Imperial Security Bureau, Captain? Was that by choice?” Kleya’s question hung in the air, even as Dedra’s eyes flickered past her, absorbing the oddity of the cloaked, silver-haired Bothan at her side, and back to where Tavin was frowning.

There would be repercussions, if she personally arrested the traitor at Jova’s party: her assignment from Krennic was to be a quiet observer, gathering names, protecting Moonfall’s secrecy at all costs; her orders from Director Korlis meant she had to avoid revealing her ISB connections; and the cost of lashing out would be her personal relationships, so carefully cultivated and nurtured, for in truth they were based on a Dedra Meero that did not exist. This Dedra did not care. 

“You’ll stay a while, Kleya Marki, you and your friend,” she said sharply, waving Tavin closer, and then leaning in to whisper in his ear: “Go to the security office–discretely. Lock down the estate; no one leaves. And call for Imperial backup.” He inclined his head once in acknowledgement and left, a confused expression on his face. She would deal with him later. 

When she returned her gaze at Kleya, the former antiquities dealer and current Axis and rebel conspirator was still smiling at her, still all teeth, still entirely duplicitous. 

The Bothan beside her, swathed in purple fabric that wrapped around her in yards of delicate lace, cleared her throat, a soft hemhemhem noise, and pushed between them. “Captain Meero, it is my honor to meet you and touch hands. I am a representative of the Bothan Syndicate, a long-time partner of the Fondor Guide of Starshipwrights, and I am here to personally ask for our partnership to be reinstated. It has been over a year since our ships and materials were seized by the Empire and it is a great hardship–”

Jova, a glass of bubbly in hand and still at her side interrupted, a fixed smile on her face. “Surely now is not the time, perhaps in private? After all, the books have been officially closed for the year.” 

“No, now is the best time,” said the Bothan, ignoring the soft signal, the indication that she was forcing a societal faux pas on another guest, and began to raise her voice. “You and you alone can fix this horrible oversight–”

“Dedra Meero has no intention of fixing anything, does she?” said Kleya coldly. “She is here to make things worse. She oversaw Ghorman’s end, ice running in your veins, ordering down security droids to fire on an unarmed populace. I fear our journey here was a lost cause from the start.”

“My apologies, Captain,” said Jova, turning her back to the two as if to separate the conversation. “I do not know what to say; this behavior by one of my guests is not something I endorse.”

Scenarios played out like rapidfire in her head: it would take time for the military net to close, but even when they arrived they had no orders save to close down the airways around the estate, and no directions on whom they were looking for, or why. Dedra had to direct them herself, give her own codes, but until Tavin returned  confirmed the estate was locked down, she needed to keep her eyes on these two, and the easiest way to do that was to keep them in conversation. 

But she did not have to pretend to enjoy it. “I find moments like this very tiresome,” she said. “Standing here, watching you pretend you have come hat-in-hand, when instead it is all lies. I know what you are, Kleya, you and your furry friend. You dare to show your face here, on my world? Fondor is the Empire’s now. It will always be the Empire’s.” 

Dedra felt her heart start to race, her voice start to raise, but she couldn’t stop it, not even with Jova watching her, her mouth agape. “I don’t know why you are really here, but I will find out, and I will find out all your secrets, too–”

She may have gone a little far. She faltered, snapped her mouth close and felt her lips fall into a frown. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tavin, who nodded at her. “You will regret this,” Dedra said harshly. “You will regret coming here.” She turned on her heel, walking away as her head began to pound. 

Tavin fell into step beside her instantly. “What is this?” he said. “What is going on?”

Dedra grabbed at his wrist. “Do not let them out of your eyesight.” she said urgently, lowly. “They must not leave. Where is the security office?”

“To the left, up the stairs,” he said. There was something in his eyes, but she did not have time to figure out what it was.

As she pushed through the crowd, past dozens or perhaps hundreds of guests in their finery, the music playing and couples dancing, she pondered the possibility of bringing in security directly into the grounds and firing on them all. It would be a political disaster but a military coup. But if they could set blasters to stun, perhaps it was worth it–

She needed to get a hand on her own blaster. Why had she come unarmed, why had Tavin brought her here, who could she trust?

Up the stairs, the security office was humble indeed: three agents, only two of them armed with blasters, and a third at a desk with multiple monitors, clearly visible behind the door, cracked open. Her uniform and scowl won her entrance, and a hurriedly pulled out chair that scraped angrily against the tile floor. As if she had time to sit.

Their radio wasn’t even military issue. Dedra held her code cylinder in her hand in confusion, lacking a place to insert it. The Fondorian security guard next to her said, uncertainly, “That won’t work, miss; shall I ring headquarters again?”

She stabbed a finger at the monitor in front of her, where the blurry figures of the Bothan and Kleya stood, arguing with Jova. “Go down and take those two in custody first,” she ordered. “Weapons to stun. You–show me how to use this radio.”

“They haven’t picked up yet,” said the guard helpfully, waving the two armed guardsmen out of the room. “The Major said to call the planetary security–”

They had not picked up yet. Dedra gritted her jaw, cursing Tavin and his ineptitude, then manually punched in a code she was not supposed to have, and watched in cold satisfaction as ISB Supervisor Lyria Ozzel flickered on the central screen immediately. 

“I don’t have time to explain,” snapped Dedra. The code was explanation enough; using it it indicated a superior officer, and demanded obedience. “There is an insurgent agent by the name of Kleya Marki and her accomplice, a Bothan, at Jova Brentall’s estate. You will initiate a localized lockdown of this area, and send in an extraction team to apprehend her.” 

To her credit Ozzel did not hesitate, either at the revelation that Dedra was in fact still connected to the Bureau, or by her orders. But when her face disappeared from the monitors, and it returned to surveillance of the party, Kleya Marki and the Bothan were no longer next to Jova, and the two security guards were there instead, blasters in hand but without a target.

“Where–” she began, and then Tavin was behind her, a bit out of breath, with answers and none that she wanted. 

“Jova threw them out,” he said. “I don’t understand what’s going on–”

“They’re gone? I said to lock down the estate–”

A red light began to blink on one of the monitors and the security guard next to her shifted uncomfortably. “Captain, if I may–”

“What is it?” she snapped.

“We are locked down, Captain, no speeders will leave the platform, but that light means we’re about to have a heat wave. It will knock out radios for–”

“What?”

“–just a second, but it requires a manual restart, or everything will get fried–”

Around her the party had slowed, and despite the cheery music, small, whispering groups of guests were gathered like animals sensing a shift in the air pressure, snipping and gossiping and staring. Jova, next to her and her own security guards, smiled uneasily and then turned her back to Dedra and raised her glass.

“We are just one hour away from Year End,” she said loudly, and walked over to the center of the room, doing her best to draw attention and eyes to her. Some, the more easily susceptible, followed, and as Jova continued her speech, one she clearly had prepared and planned for later in the night, Dedra was grateful for it.

But it was not nearly enough. Every staring eye further trapped her, like tractor beams, and even as she gestured for the guards to follow and marched out to the landing pad, where confused security guards stood in front of the blinking red lights that blocked speeder departure, she felt helpless.

“Those cameras,” she ordered, pointing at the ones she had noticed on the way in. “Get them from me–get any details on the speeder that Kleya Marki arrived in, and left in.”

“Left in, miss?” the security guard manning the platform asked in confusion, then as he glanced at her uniform, coughed. “Captain. There’s been no departures since the order.”

She whirled on her heel, stabbing the one from upstairs in the chest. “Jova threw them out and then where did they go? Get me cameras: if they are still on the estate, lock it down.” When they stood in place, hesitating, she roared: “Go!”

Five minutes later ISB arrived, and the shuttlecraft descending from the heavens filled with shocktroopers and a grimfaced Supervisor Ozzel, wearing that all-too-familiar white ensemble, brought with it the first whiff of competence in the entire mansion. She ignored Tavin, who had stuck to her like an irritating burr, and strode directly to Ozzel, ignoring the drenching downpour, and immediately began to snap out orders.

“There are two fugitives we need to take into custody here on this estate,” she said simply. “Kleya Marki and an unnamed Bothan who claimed to be a representative of the Bothan Syndicate. These security officers will provide video footage of their arrival.” She chattered off orders, easing back into the role with icy relief, as Ozzel stood, her hands behind her back.

And then Dedra turned to Tavin. “You were once a subcontractor for the Bothan syndicate,” she said bluntly. “Did you recognize the Bothan with Marki?”

Everything was moving so quickly, like a well being purged clean from its choke-points, yet there was something here: her every instinct demanded that she flush this prey from its hiding spot, too. And Tavin had been at her side this whole time.

He was on Director Korlis’ list, she reminded herself: he was not to know. But now he must at least suspect. 

The brief hesitation in his eyes was all the confirmation she needed. “Perhaps Jova–” he began.

Dedra gestured at Ozzel. “You will take his report,” she said, then softened it, as much as she could. Korlis would be upset: kid gloves. “He is a Navy Major; his dossier is on file.”

“Yes, Captain,” Ozzel said.

If Tavin had not already figured out the new chain of command, he did now.

Korlis would be upset. But Krennic would be far more so, if Moonfall was at risk, and Marki had to know–she had know something.

“Clear to go in, Captain?” Ozzel was saying, and Dedra dragged her attention back to the ISB officer before her.

It was such a relief not to have to pretend anymore. At least not here. “Yes,” Dedra said, giving the order. It would be a scandal: an Imperial raid at a high-society party. But when she walked away from it with Marki and the Bothan, everything would be worth it, if not forgiven. 

And if Marki had not left using the landing pad, she had to still be inside.  

Dedra watched in icy silence as a column of shocktroopers marched inside, taking up stations at the entrances, Ozzel following in the rear, and as Tavin was escorted into the shuttlebay, two troopers at each arm. Her eyes locked on the commterminal in the pilot’s chamber.

The black-capped pilot got out of her way as soon as she darkened the doorway, and as he did so, she also claimed his blaster. She had not fired one since the academy, not in earnest, but tonight she wanted one, wanted its comfortable weight and cold purpose in her hands. But as she closed the door for privacy, her mind began to race. How could she possibly explain this in a way that would not simply have Krennic pointing to her obsession with Axis?

Dedra did not have to find out, for he did not pick up, even when she used the high priority code. She tried again, left a second message, and marked both urgent.  

Outside the shuttlecraft the rain was pouring, drenching and leaving puddles that pooled in glistening mirrors. The Imperial shuttle was not the only vehicle; around it were dozens of speeders, some still manned with drivers, others dark and unoccupied, and red and yellow lights from those that were still powered flickered through the sheets of water.

Inside she could hear the distant sounds of confusion, of chaos: shouted orders, yells. There was no blasterfire yet, but it was only a matter of time. 

Dedra stared at the entrance, and waited for Kleya to be found, her hand on the blaster’s stun toggle, flipping it on, then off, then on.  

It was not a long wait, but what interrupted her was not Ozzel with good news, but Krennic, with worse.

His face flickered on the terminal, a frowning visage in white. “What is it?”

“Sir,” Dedra said, “I have initiated a minor enforcement sweep on Fondor. Kleya Marki, alongside an accomplice, has appeared at the former Treasurer’s year-end party–”

“Party?” said Krennic, seizing on this word of all words. “I don’t have time for this. I need you to redirect half of Fondor’s stormtrooper garrison to the Mid Rim by next week. Your TIE squadrons, too. You’ll need to make do with the squadrons attached to the Destroyers in for repairs going forward.”

“Sir?” Dedra’s mind stuttered by the rapid change of topic. Stripping Fondor of its defenses would require so much paperwork, and it would be dangerous to leave the yards without a garrison. She tried to redirect him. “It is Kleya Marki, sir–Axis.”

“Do not let this become a recurrence of your demonstrated deficiencies,” he snapped, his face flickering in greens and blacks as he did so. “Axis is gone; dead.”

“That she is here might mean she knows Moonfall exists,” Dedra said desperately, invoking the one word she knew would capture his attention. “I–we need to catch her, to find out what she knows, and protect the project. The mission is already underway.”

A brief moment of silence fell over the pilot’s chamber as Krennic absorbed this. “Then do not fail,” he said. “And you have your new orders.”

“Sir, this will leave us defenseless against attacks,” she said urgently. 

“If you object, you’re welcome to take it up with Lord Vader yourself.” And then he was gone.

She was not going to do that. Dedra stared at the blank screen for a minute, stewing, and then when she opened the door, Ozzel was there waiting for her.

“The residence is secured,” she reported stiffly, “and neither of the targets are in custody.”

“How is that possible,” Dedra asked slowly, doing her best to stay calm, “if their speeder is still here?”

“We reviewed footage; after going out the front door, they looped around and used an old staff maintenance lift.”

“The lifts were deactivated. The doors were locked.” Dedra felt like she was going mad. 

Ozzel’s eyes flickered. “It was the heat sink vent, Captain. They said they told you it would need a restart–”

“–lock down the planet,” Dedra said. “The whole damn thing–”

“Captain,” Ozzel said cautiously, “Fondor is under Imperial control but this is still a civilian world. Realistically, we can lock the transit zones and enact an interdictor in orbit. But this would attract attention, and if I may be so bold, I do not think you are here for that.” 

Dedra stared at the thin-lipped Lieutenant in front of her, who had in just minutes grasped not just the situation but the nuances of it, and who dared to give her advice after being given an order, and had to acknowledge that perhaps Ozzel was right. 

“The Bothan,” she said, instead, redirecting her ire. The Bothan would be easier to find simply because of her appearance. “You have a name?”

“She was on Treasurer Brentall’s guestlist, Captain. Sai’lorra Fal’Ness, from the Bothan syndicate. It is not her first time on Fondor.” 

“Find every place she’s been, every place she’s stayed, every person she’s met,” said Dedra. “Pull in the interdictor and call it a temporary training exercise; if they have left the estate their next step is getting offworld; we need to capture them before they have help. It won’t stay up long, we just need to box them in.”

She paused, her mind racing. It was not just a Bothan, it was a syndicate representative. It was larger and larger, and there was no way they would not know Marki’s connections. “In fact: initiate a trade integrity review on all of the books. The scope is non-human intermediaries with Bothan registry markers; effective immediately.”

It was a small order; an anti-corruption interdict, designed to lock and protect Imperial supply chains. Yet what it truly did was reclassify the trade lines: all Bothan-linked trade credentials would be suspended pending review; all Bothan vessels would be flagged for secondary inspection; all Bothans would be reclassified as unverified actors.

Sai’lorra Fal’Ness would be unable to do as much as pay for a cup of kaf, much less go off world.

Dedra suddenly felt a lot better, calmer. There was a plan: now the only thing left to do was enact it. “As for those inside,” she said, “hold them for verification. No one leaves until they are interviewed and logged.” Ozzel was still standing in front of her, motionless. “Now,” she barked, and watched as the agent saluted, and left.

–––

Eight hours later, Dedra’s extended office orbiting Fondor had been transformed from a simple reception area to an action station. The night had stretched longer and longer and no one, whether wearing the white uniform of ISB or the greys of the Navy, looked rested; Dedra herself felt strung out, like a durasteel cable under immense strain.

What remained of her reputation as a reasonable, fair woman who could be trusted would need to be evaluated in the cold light of tomorrow. Even now she winced at what might spill out of Tavin’s mouth, and how correctly she had judged him, but how pointless her subterfuge had been. 

For despite hundreds of interviews, an interdictor orbiting the planet, and every man under her command on the job, Marki and Fal’Ness were no closer to being found. 

And the interdictor had to be temporary, and had to be lifted now, at market’s open: her own supply lines, for materials to repair the Destroyers under her care, and the quiet construction of the Death Star parts, were under threat.

She dreaded having to make a follow-up call to Director Krennic, to share with him the bad news that her cover had been damaged, and she had caught no one in her net. It would be a disaster.

But it was not all bad, she told herself. She had identified the Bothans as insurgent allies; she had blocked them off from Fondor. Surely that would make up for it; and she was good at rumors. A few dinner parties and all of this would be smoothed over.

Dedra tapped her fingers on her desk in impatience. There was a chance she still might find Marki, now that the transit venues had opened for the morning; she had to come crawling out somewhere. 

A knock at her door, and then Ozzel burst in without waiting, a worried expression on her face. “Captain,” she began, “about that order you gave to suspend the Bothan trade agreements.”

Chapter Text

A year ago, over lunch, Krennic had complained to Tyria Korlis about how while he was welcome at the Imperial Palace, he had not seen the Emperor himself for months. 

“I don’t know,” she said drily at the time. “You may prefer having that layer of protection between you.”

“Mas Amedda is not even a military commander,” he replied snippily. “He is a glorified secretary.” While he knew he was being far too open with Korlis, Krennic had been caught up in one of those beautiful, rare moments where it seemed anything was possible. Lord Vader had taken one skeptical look at the upper ranks of the Fleet and then had swept through like a gravity well gone horribly wrong, systematically cutting into the chaff and the strong alike. Ozzel, Griff, Haas, Needa: it did not matter if your family had been in the ruling class of Eriadu for decades, or you were a nobody from the Outer Rim, the only thing that Vader cared about was results, and yesterday’s results did not count.

In this vacuum of power Krennic stepped, carefully, surely; and for a time it seemed that the parts of power were reassembling under him, at last, and where they deserved to be–what he deserved. His old rivals at the ISB were gone, replaced with allies; the admirals that reported to Vader were always short lived; and his own projects thrived, including the secret orbiting Endor.

And so, he felt the moment ripened to stare upwards, and wonder. Tarkin had been in rarified air, advising the Emperor and Vader directly, a third in their triumvirate of power; so why not Krennic now? After all, he was well underway to deliver not only a Death Star but a new fleet. 

In his dreams there was no room for a blue-skinned and horn-tipped Changrian.

This day, this dismal, dreary day, Krennic thought wistfully back to those simpler times, and greatly wished he could leave today’s report on Mas Amedda’s desk and slink out the back door. The Changrian’s offices were comfortable: plush red chairs, servitors standing, waiting to bring out kaf or sweet treats. 

The Emperor had no such amenities; stepping into his mere presence was considered reward enough. Or punishment enough.

Krennic rode the lift up alone, listening to bits of metal vibrate against each other as it roared upwards the ten, dozens, hundreds of levels. The Imperial Palace was not a new structure; a few decades prior it had been named the Jedi Temple, and moldered like that for several millenia. He wondered if it had ever been upgraded; the Emperor only rarely came down from his spire at the top of the world, and when he did, took a shuttle. The dreary, decrepit state of the lift was not on his mind.

The buzzing of the walls, rattling against the wire, was not enough to distract Krennic from his own thoughts. The last time he had spoken to the Emperor personally, it had been a week after the greatest failure of his life, and handcuffs bit into his wrists as a sharp reminder of his place in the galaxy. He had ridden up in this elevator then, too, confused and ignorant of what he would face, and completely oblivious of what had happened on Scarif, and outside Yavin IV, after being knocked unconscious.

Some things had changed since then. Promises were made, and now they certainly must be kept. Krennic done his best at it: all his quiet calculations of what he could pry out of the unsuspecting Moffs; what he might wheedle and borrow from forgetful, willfully ignorant citizens; what he could claim and seize from would-be rebels, and turn into their greatest nightmare.

Today, he was here to tell the Emperor he had failed, in more ways than one. Today he was here to die.

He had considered skipping the trip entirely, and just ending it himself, like Lio had in a similar moment of shame. Yet he was not that brave, and honestly, not that sure of his fate. Secretly he knew he had too great an opinion of himself to ever rid the galaxy of his presence prematurely, not when there was this, the smallest of chances that he might yet make it out intact.

When the doors opened before him to the opulence he remembered, Krennic’s eyes flickered greedily to the great windows out of which the skies of Coruscant spread like a jewelbox, every bright spot of light another gem to coo at. And there were so many of them, too, sprawled glittering below: the richest planet in the galaxy, a symbol of the Empire’s wealth and dominion.

The man who ruled it all did not even bother to gaze outward. Today, the throne was already swiveled towards the elevator, as if he was waiting for Krennic to arrive. The Emperor, robed in black velvet, the barest hint of white, wrinkled chin viewable from beneath that hood, gazed at him with displeasure and disappointment, and his yellow eyes turned the air heavy with menace. 

At either side of him, the two red-robed guardsmen stood silently, pikes in hand, and as Krennic stepped forward, tentatively, the heel of his boots hitting the marble with the echo of a mausoleum, they moved to leave using the same lift behind him. 

Krennic knew better than to speak first, but took the guards’ departure as a sign. Surely the Emperor would not kill him personally, that felt below him. Folding his hands in front of him, he stood, and waited.

He did not wait long.

“You have failed me,” the Emperor said, biting each word out with contempt. 

A cold wave of white panic swept over him, and Krennic knew that he might have misjudged exactly how much of a chance he had to make his way out of this alive. 

His limbs moved like lead, and yet he still managed to fall to his knees as quickly as possible, and cast his gaze on the floor in front of the Emperor’s feet, and tried to gather his thoughts as thoughts jumbled together in his mind. He had something for this, he had prepared, he had a way to make this sound better–

“Fondor is a disaster of secrets.” The sounds were a hiss of condemnation, coming from the Emperor’s lips. “Leaks, poisoned plans, a weak commander whom you endorsed. And now even my new Death Star is at risk.”

Krennic had nothing for this. “Your excellency,” he managed. “The Death Star nears operational status. It is a skeleton in Endor’s sky, but–”

“Do you think I am unaware?” the Emperor snapped, and Krennic felt his own mouth forced closed as if there were a hand on his chin. “It is your failures that have landed you here, before me.”

And then Krennic heard it: that unmistakable sound of a cybernetic respirator, a chill rasp in, and out, the cold blade of the executioner that had without passion or emotion slaughtered most of the Joint Chiefs in the last year–

Blurrily, he wondered at whatever made him think he wanted to be third in this triumvirate, why he ever envied Mas Amedda for having to ride that shitty lift–

He was not dead yet. 

“Look at me, Director Krennic,” ordered the Emperor. 

He did not want to stop his panicked staring at the swirls of marble tile under his feet; did not want time to slide forward, for he knew it would inevitably lead to his end, but just like before, his head moved of its own accord, like he was on puppet-strings, and could only obey the person who held his leash.

The Emperor’s eyes seemed as if they were glowing from beneath that hood, but that was impossible. “You have promised Lord Vader a fleet, built at Fondor. Tell him what you have done instead.”

“My lord,” Krennic said, each word pulled out of him reluctantly, “the resources marked for Fondor went there, but it is a shellgame. They are instead sent to the Death Star’s construction. It was one or the other–”

“Lord Vader has uncovered plans that this Rebellion knows something is afoot, and intends to attack Fondor’s shipyards,” interrupted the Emperor. 

“Then we need to defend–”

“What you need to do, Krennic, is to continue on your path of catastrophes.” The Emperor leaned back in his seat, a hand lifted by his hood in casual comfort. 

“You will send all of Fondor’s resources to Endor,” rumbled Lord Vader. “Before their attack.” The black-armored giant sucked the atmosphere out of every command deck but here he was diminutive, a bullydog that barked only at the Emperor’s command. “And the garrison to the Mid Rim.”

In a way, Krennic thought to himself, that was what we all were. “I do not understand,” he confessed.

“And that is why you will fail,” said the Emperor smugly. 

Chapter Text

The very existence of the Empire rested on Dedra Meero’s shoulders. In the space of just a few months, she had lost the TIE fighter garrison dedicated to Fondor, the support of the local Navy officers, who now considered her an internal affairs spy, and most of her social life.

It was all Kleya Marki’s fault; the smugly simpering woman had walked into Jova’s party and upended her carefully constructed life. Worse: she had the appalling bad manners to do so and then disappear from Fondor, so thoroughly and so quietly that Dedra’s revelation of her deep, current connections to the ISB were entirely pointless. 

It was not the first time she had been isolated and distant from her colleagues; Dedra had started at the Bureau, after all, clawing and climbing her way up its ranks. Most of her postings had been on Coruscant, or a temporary mission brief like Ghorman, where she was either surrounded by like-minded peers or entirely absent from them. What made this time different was that while she wasn’t wearing the white, her actions had linked her to the ISB more concretely than her personnel dossier.  

And no one likes a snitch. 

She had done what she could, blaming that Marki woman and letting the rumor blossom that the Bothans had been connected to the insurgents that still plagued the Mid Rim. It certainly felt believable, especially after rumors of the unauthorized credit transfer the night of Founding Day began, and many were taken in.

Not that she wanted those rumors to start: that was another black mark on her ledger, and no matter how hard she tried to scrub at the ink, it would not come clean, it stained everything.

There were a few, those closest to her who had their own secrets to hide, that did not believe any of her misdirections. The morning of the disastrous lockdown, and the failure of the trade review, Dedra had the so-called former chief fiscal auditor of the Fondor Shipwrights’ Cooperative, Jova Brentall herself, brought in for questioning. Such an enormous amount of credits released–it had to have been a setup. ISB Supervisor Ozzel set her teeth on it, too, like a mad dog, and descended on the estate with not just stormtroopers but a security team with buttoned-up vests and field-grade evidence processors. 

When it was discovered that all the year-end books were completed on flimsi, Dedra closed the door to her office quietly and sat at her desk with her face in her hands, before reemerging, grim-faced, to declare the end of any remnants of the Shipwright’s Cooperative. No more Founding Day; no more flimsi; no more separate books.

All this improper regulatory tracking had gotten in the way, anyway, and the shipyards were nationalized. Why they had allowed the Fondorians even this small sliver of independence in the first place was beyond her: it was certainly not her idea.

That week was a marathon of interrogations. Dedra, in a fit of rage, also had Major Tavis Arros, Fleet Logistics, former merchant line officer and subcontractor for the Bothan Syndicate, locked up. 

“Are you sure?” asked Ozzel, being given the order. It was the first time she’d pushed back. 

Dedra had her initial doubts about Ozzel, back when she was pretending to just be a Navy Captain, but the slim woman had proven herself overnight to be a sensible, hardworking credit to her profession. And so now, she listened. “You have concerns,” she said. “Speak.”

“It’s more than just your personal connection with him, sir,” Ozzel said, not an ounce of judgement in her tone. “It’s his connection with the Bothans–and the fleet. From what we can tell from our initial interview, he had no knowledge or even any chance to touch the books. So, properly pushed, he could be bait.” 

And so, while Dedra dreamed of shoving Tavis into a clean, white cell where she never had to see his face again, instead she ordered house arrest, and made a personal visit to let him know. 

Tavis’ quarters were not nearly as lavish as hers, but as a permanent attache to the Fleet, he was stationed in the same orbital ring that housed the central offices, as well as her own quarters, and thus had a beautiful a view of the shipyards and the gleaming grey Star Destroyers docked for repairs. Dedra had visited him there a few times, and just the once to his townhouse on the surface; typically, time was spent at her larger and grander apartment. 

She had not preferred it that way. After all, her assignment was to learn if he was in fact one of the numerous information leaks, and not being able to take a look around was limiting. So this time, when she visited his quarters and entered after giving a quick nod to the troopers stationed outside his door, Dedra took a moment to stare around at its sterile walls, his too-clean desk, the closet ajar, and the suitcase open, and visible on the floor.

The smile was gone from Tavis’ affable green eyes as he watched her. After she entered, the doors slid behind her with a cool snap, and he had been standing, staring out of the window; at the noise he turned, and at the sight of her, rather than anyone else, his jaw tightened. 

“Do you see what you have been sent to look for?” he said finally, bitterly. 

“It’s not like that,” Dedra said. “How much have you been told?”

He shrugged. “A lot of questions about the Bothan Syndicate,” he replied, ticking them off on his fingers. “All my work, all my relationships, are scrutinized. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m sure my townhouse has been ransacked. I was brought in as the Fleet supplier because of my connections with these merchants.”

“Alright,” Dedra said. “I understand. This is difficult for me, too. You’ve been in the dark, this last week, and you don’t know what happened that night.” It made sense only if he was truly a patsy, and Ozzel would never have revealed the transaction during the interrogation. 

She offered him a scrap of the truth. “The Bothan that came alongside Marki; I know you’ve already shared what you know about her. They were here as a distraction; what happened that night was a financial heist. The entire frozen balance due to non-Imperial subcontractors was transferred illegally to the Bothan Syndicate’s accounts overnight.”

Even saying it enraged her further: that there was no physical requirement for such a large monetary release had been unbelievable. That would never happen again.

Tavis’ eyes widened; his mouth dropped a little; a quick flush reddened his cheeks. Dedra sighed inwardly: it would have been easier had he known. Now, he was either an excellent liar or innocent, and in either case, quite useless. Unless Ozzel’s gambit worked.

As he began to stutter his protestations to the latter, she raised a hand. “Stop,” she said gently. “I know. I know. You have to understand how this looks, Tavis.”

All the fire had gone out of him; he looked deflated, exhausted, and when he moved to sit, he slumped over in the desk chair. “What will happen to me?” he asked.

The words hung in the recycled air a moment before Dedra replied. “I have to put you under house arrest, for now, until your name is cleared,” she said finally. “It might take a while.”

It had taken three months, during which Dedra visited him daily, and then weekly, as the remnants of their relationship fractured into their new reality:her disapproval and his disgrace.

In a way, Tavis had it easy: he was entirely shielded from the furious Director Krennic who dropped in two weeks after the Bothan’s heist, unannounced.

When her office door slid open, at first Dedra didn’t even look up; she was expecting lunch. “Just leave it on the entryway table,” she said, distracted, not turning her eyes from the terminal in front of her. There was something to this supply line, some sort of pattern–

“You imbecile. All this misplaced trust, investment in your future, wasted.”

She had forgotten how terrifying an ice-cold, careful, and furious Krennic could be. All that old fear rushed to her throat, that sinking, twisting feeling at her belly. “Sir,” she said, folding her hands in front of her, and turning towards him. She did not stand.

For all he wore white, Krennic cast a black shadow. “I dare not assume you have swept this room,” he said cuttingly.

Despite herself, Dedra bristled slightly. “We are unobserved,” she said. “I would never–”

“I could never know for certain,” he spit out, that lisp dragging at the c’s like they were made of scrap metal, rolling in his mouth. “You are the guardian of the Empire’s greatest secret. And you cannot help yourself, can you? Faced with this Axis–a pale and paltry replacement for Luthen Rael–you let her beat you. Worse, you let her escape, with millions of Imperial credits. Explain yourself.”

Dedra knew how this would go. She opened her mouth, as if she were going to do just that.

“–no, be silent. I don’t want excuses, Meero.” Krennic paced closer and closer to the desk at a glacial rate until he stood over it, bracing himself with his palms as he leaned down upon the desk to glare. “I want you to know just how direly you have failed. But it is not just me you have disappointed, Captain Meero.” In that tone her title sounded like a slur.

“I called you,” she said.

“And what did I say?” Silence dragged again. “Say it.”

“You said not to fail,” said Dedra.

“And you did. Do you remember why you were stationed here, Meero? Tell me, was it to chase a specter of the past?” 

“No,” she said. He did not speak, just waited. “It was so I could guard Project Moonfall.”

“I feel like I have to pull out a chart to share how revealing your association with the ISB will lead the insurgents to your door, sniffing. And guide them to mine.”

And yet you are here, Dedra thought rebelliously, taking no care at all for your own secrecy. She did not say that. “I have done what I could to stop that leak, Director. We are looking for ways to recover the credits–”

“–don’t. Leave these Bothans alone, Meero. Let the ISB take this from here. Your role is to sit, and watch, and be quiet about it. This is a breach that must be reported to the Emperor. Pray he does not send someone worse than me to your door.”

It took several minutes before the air felt normal after Krennic left her officer, and several more before Dedra could turn her mind back to the terminal in front of her, patiently blinking with all its simple, passionless numbers.

Weeks stretched into months, and Tavin was eventually released from his house arrest. He did not attend her next mixer, and it was a sad affair anyway: anyone who had been at Tova’s party had distanced themselves from her, and the only visitors to her dinners now were visiting Navy commanders and captains who had heard a rumor, and perhaps wanted to see what the fuss was; or those who hadn’t heard at all.  

Lacking any distractions, Dedra buried herself in work, and wondered and waited about what might happen to her. She did what she could with the rapidly limited resources: sent TIE fighters out on routine sweeps on the perimeters; requested temporary access to an interdictor to throttle the commercial hyperspace line; scheduled, then underscheduled, workers who slaved at the repairs.

For there were fewer and fewer repairs being made, and not because there were fewer Star Destroyers in dock, but because what had once been a trickle of her resources to Project Moonfall had become a flood. 

It started with a white-faced call from Director Krennic, only a few days after his personal visit, snapping out new orders in a manner even abrupt for him, and then closing the line before she’d had a chance to answer.

The pattern had continued month after month, seeping and sapping at Fondor’s resources until she felt like she was patching up the fleet with tape and prayers. Defenses were so minimal, despite the numbers of Destroyers in for repair, that she had taken to ordering one of the damaged starships out for patrol on a rotating basis.  

It was not a popular decision; no Captain wanted to be tied to an inoperational ship hauled out just for show, and in many cases it was just that: no heavy turbolasers, a skeleton crew, deflector shields on the blink, minimal TIE fighters. 

But it looked good, and she breathed easier seeing one patrolling around the shipyard.  

She paid close attention to the ISB reports on Tavis Arros’ actions; after his release, he returned to the surface and spent much of his time at the townhouse. While the techs were positive anything incriminating had been uncovered–and there was nothing–it was still suspicious, which was why, after four months of his time away, Dedra was surprised to bump into him at the officer’s mess.

“Tavis,” she said.

He turned around, a plate in his hands, and nodded at her. “Dedra–Captain,” he said, correcting himself with a careful glance around. There were not many present this late in the afternoon; it was why she preferred to eat now, when she would not be interrupted. 

“I didn’t see you had returned.” 

“It felt like time to resume my duties,” he said shortly. “If you have no objections, Captain.”

“Of course not,” she said, and that was that: he was back, and on the same ring, but the distance might as well have been as far to Coruscant. Three days later, a fleet of X-wings popped into Fondor’s orbit at the worst possible time.

Chapter Text

As soon as Kleya Marki returned to Alliance headquarters from Fondor, flushed with her victory and with a brand new planet in her pocket, she began planning her return trip to the shipyards.

It was not easy: Rebellion headquarters was in chaos, which both worked for and against her. Draven, her nemesis-turned-reluctant supervisor, had not made it off of Hoth, and General Rieekan’s star was soaring, having managed to evacuate and then reunite the scraps of the fleet at a new, isolated hub in darkspace. 

She had her doubts about his fitness to lead a proper spy operation. Rieekan, despite his oversight of Alliance Intelligence, used it as a blunt object rather than a scalpel, and found little use in the strands of intel and data that Kleya could weave together to tell a fuller story. To him, it was all about Imperial fleet movements, and not a whit about finesse. 

“I don’t get what’s so special about this Meero woman,” he told her, distracted, when Kleya finally managed to get him alone long enough to make her pitch. “Draven didn’t either–I’ve looked in his records.”

“Ferrix, Ghorman, and now Fondor,” Kleya said, ticking off each with a finger raised on her left hand. “Meero was there on each, not just a connection but a harbinger. And what you might be missing is this final piece: Jung.” 

Rieekan frowned. “I’m not familiar with that planet,” he said. She was losing him; his eyes flickered back to the fleet movement map on the wall behind her.

“Not a planet. A person; our former contact at ISB headquarters at Coruscant. Only by Jung’s breach of Meero’s files did we discover the threads that led us to the Death Star. I told Draven this before I left: if she’s at Fondor, she’s there for a reason. And I feel that’s proved by how desperate she was to capture me.”

“Don’t think you’re getting away with that mission breach so easily,” he replied, chiding. “Even being shelled at Hoth I could read mission reports, and most of what you did was not authorized.”

“Things change once you’re on the ground,” Kleya said easily, dismissively, and it was true. “What matters is Bothawui is now an Alliance world. And: no casualties.”

It was more than Rieekan could say about Hoth, after a ground assault and two of the transport ships captured. His lips thinned out in response. “So what do you propose?”

“Draven mentioned an attack on Fondor. I know you’re still working on it. I need that to be cover for my own operation; to extract an asset.”

–––

Kleya did not have a high opinion of Tavin Arros. He was a dyed-in-grey Imperial, despite his mercantile roots, someone who went along with the annexation of Fondor with a oh-well shrug and even had the nerve to ask what was in it for him, and to not care who he trod underfoot on the way in to his brand new office. 

But she’d seen him at Jova’s party, nervously standing by the side of Dedra Meero, and she had a nose for this, and people like him. Her private radio to the Bothan headquarters still worked, and she used it the moment she got back to spend some of her newly won goodwill on something that never steered her wrong: information.

Vessa’ri Fal’Kara, the tall and gold-draped matriarch they had met earlier, was more than happy to speak with Kleya. She was their golden child, someone who delivered a crate of their missing credits when no one said it would be possible, and who cares about the pesky rules she broke on the way to do it? They sent ships and more to the Alliance as soon as that sweet sight of zeroes all in a row hit their bank account.

The day after Founding Day became a sort of liberation day on Bothawui: it was a poorly-monitored Rim World anyway, and being of no particular military importance, was only loosely connected to the Empire. Like Ryloth or Mon Cala before it, the day changed little for the regular people who went about their regular lives, save they were perhaps a bit puzzled why the banners flying the cog turned into colors that resembled the Old Republic’s firebird, or why the merchant ships now used the Glimmerway to route goods.

In the underground market far in the bowels of Bothawui, Kleya was given not just a soft blanket to sit on but a cup of tea, and then before her, a plate of what looked like dried meat, or perhaps dehydrated mushrooms, long and stringy and brown.

“Kleya Marki,” said Vessa’ri warmly, “when your voice came through the radio I said yes, of course, you must come. Radios are not well-suited for dealings of this kind. I knew for our next negotiation I must host you personally.”

While her intelligence on Bothawui food had been slim, her research into the Bothan’s hierarchy had been far more thorough. That Kleya was sitting by herself opposite a matriarch powerful enough to send multiple starships to the aid of the Alliance–and was allowed into her presence without even being checked for weapons–this was a great honor. 

Credits really did make the galaxy go round.

“I’m here because I need your help, matriarch Fal’Kara,” Kleya began, skipping many of the niceties. It was only polite not to waste the valuable matriarch’s time. “I wonder if you have any information you can share about your dealings with your former operative, a man named Tavin Arros.”

And then it began: the unraveling of the man, his history, and naturally, his off-world bank accounts, plump with credits, a healthy nest egg that was just a bit too rich to have been acquired legally, and just a bit too large to ignore, if one knew it was there.

“It was why we knew he could be trusted in our safehouse,” said Vessa’ri. “There is his own domicile, in Drev’starn.”

“Is there?” Kleya asked. “I would like to see. How did you get in contact with him, when you did not want to be seen doing so?”

“You must not think less of me for knowing these minor details,” Fal’Kara said.

“Of course not,” said Kleya. “A smart merchant keeps the coin purse closed, and its contents secret.” 

It was not a Bothan saying–Kleya couldn’t remember where she’d heard it, exactly–but it seemed to strike the right note. Vessa’ri smiled, her slightly pointed teeth flashing white. “There is a go-between on Fondor,” she said. “I will show you how it works.”

It turned out it was just that simple; not a person afterall, but a codebox: small, dense, and unassuming, no larger than a travel ration tin, with a casing scored with shallow geometric grooves, the sort of decorative nonsense found on half the shelves in Coruscant. When Kleya turned it around in her hands, the seams did not show; no ports, no lights. Only when her thumb traced the patterns did the grooves subtly realign, shifting fractionally like a puzzle deciding whether it trusted her.

Inside was not a transmitter or a powercell, but a paired device: one box listened, the other remembered. One was on Bothawui, and the other was someplace very innocuous: Arros’ townhouse on Fondor. 

“This would have been swept by the ISB,” she said to the short-haired, twitchy Bothan who showed her to Arros’ house on the Bothan surface, and who showed her how the codebox worked. “They would have torn this apart.” 

“Why would they think it’s anything but a puzzlebox?” he said, flicking an ear. “Swept, yes. Understood, no. It looks decorative; and Fondor is filled with art like it. He has a shelf on Fondor where it sits next to other trinkets.” 

“And if they opened it?”

“They cannot, not without the twin. It has no signal, no data, not unless both are operational. Which means he must call out, and we must call in, or neither speak.”

It made sense, and was built roughly on the same premise as her own fractal radio. It would send one additional word per message on the same frequencies as background noise like shipping manifests, weather reports, market indices, and let the receiving device do the work of reconstruction. 

Of course, it did not work at all unless Arros wanted to talk, and turned it on. It was not on, now. Kleya weighed the codebox in her hands thoughtfully. “Is there another way you made contact?”

“We did not need to. We saw him weekly, if not daily. He was our consultant.”

–––

A week later, Kleya returned to Fondor. Her trip in this time was less comfortable, and far riskier; her face and identity had been broadcast across the ports of call and near Fondor City.

She couldn’t change her face, but there were a few things she could do: cut and dye her hair a short, unassuming brown; reshape her eyebrows just enough to change how her bone structure looked; and most importantly, appear in a place that felt unmemorable.

Kleya picked up her contract labor job on Bothawui on a hauler, slipping into the role of the accountant with ease. The long-bodied barge hopped from Bothawui to Kuat and then to an industrial relay station, and she put in her hours the whole way, noting paperwork, itemizing inventory, the endlessly normal, necessary part of the business. 

By the time they landed at Fondor’s shipyards, the ship was waved through quarantine; all the contents in cargo had already been already documented at the relay station, and all paperwork on personnel rubber stamped at that time by a bored Imperial.

The window was tight: unloading the shipparts would take only a few days. Kleya arrived at Fondor City for her shoreleave sweaty, wearing protective goggles for the radiation, and in grease-stained overalls. 

The Sullustan captain had begrudgingly given her the time. “Quarter wages only,” he snapped, and Kleya nodded in agreement, keeping her head low. She’d chosen this vessel not because it was connected to the Rebellion, but because it wasn’t, and at the midpoint of her contract she felt she knew why the Quiet Star was always looking for recruits, and ran on a skeleton crew.

She checked into a flophouse, and chose a private room rather than the shared bunkrooms, which cost her nearly all of her credits. What left she spent at a caf shop across the street from Arros’ townhouse, and it took nearly all of her leave before she was able to make contact. 

It would have been easier had he not been under house arrest. The day Dedra Meero arrived on a speeder, accompanied by four stormtroopers who stood pointlessly in the street outside as the grey sky opened and dropped fat drops of rain on their perfectly pristine armor, Kleya considered calling it off.

The next day she noticed the caf shop’s deliveries were going out late, including the regular order across the street. When the overworked waitress came over to refresh her cup, drawn and hassled, Kleya fumbled with her coin purse and flashed the contents: depressingly slim, and not nearly enough to cover her bill for the last few days. 

It did not go without notice. The thin-lipped waitress’s eyes flashed first with dismay, then with anger. “Sitting here nearly a week, nursing that one cuppa–” she bit off the last words, the carafe clutched in her hands and knuckles white on the handle. 

“I’m so sorry,” Kleya said. “I’m new here, just on leave; my captain didn’t give me much pocket spending money. I don’t know what–”

“I should report you for theft, get them to drag you back to your hauler.”

“Please,” she said. “Please. Can I work a bit in your kitchens, for what I owe? I’m a hard worker.”

It took more groveling to convince them that she wouldn’t just run off with the orders the moment she was out of the shop, and another day of making deliveries before she ended up inside Arros’s townhouse, setting his order on the counter, and making eye contact with him as he frowned at her.

“I know you,” he said suddenly. He was not wearing his uniform, but instead something slovenly, a heavy robe over a casual tunic. 

Kleya’s back itched; they were not alone in the kitchen, the trooper had escorted her inside rather than accept the delivery himself. “‘Course you do, sir,” she said instead. “I’m the one taking the calls when you make your orders. This time I had to come myself, though. Something wrong with your personal com?”

Arros kept frowning, but his eyes flickered to the trooper behind her. “Not that I’m aware of. You got my order this morning, clearly.”

“We’re understaffed,” Kleya said. “If you called but no one picked up, my apologies. We’re always listening.”

“That’s enough,” snapped the crisp, mechanical voice of the stormtrooper behind her. “You’re done here. Time to go.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, her eyes making steady contact with Arros’s, and turned to leave.

She finished her deliveries for the rest of the day feeling like she was being watched, and it didn’t stop until lunchtime rush was over, and she’d tossed in her delivery jacket, picked up a few slim credits over and above what she owed to the shop, and left for the hauler that she felt the mission might be a success.

Kleya didn’t know it had been for sure until she’d arrived back at Bothawui, told the Sullustan captain to go eat her trousers, disappeared into the depths of Drev’starn, and saw the puzzlebox glowing red with a message. 

Over the weeks, the conversation between them stretched thin enough to slip through the cracks of the Empire’s attention.

It was strange, turning an asset into an informer over pixels, one word at a time, strung over weeks. Because of the nature of the radio it was nearly four days before she had a complete response that made sense; another nine before she was sure it was Arros talking back, and not some ISB clerk with a smart idea for once.

Kleya worked at it, staring at charts of translations until she knew the code by heart. But the truth of the matter was she knew the Empire had broken Arros as surely as it once broke Jung, stretching him so thin with poor food and overwork and betrayals, even when he might have served them loyally, it wasn’t enough. 

In the end, she didn’t have to do much at all.

–––

The next step was getting the careful, meticulous Rieekan to agree to her plan.  

“We’re attacking the repair yards because there’s a chance to hobble not one but four Star Destroyers they have in drydock,” he said impatiently. “And there’s the skeleton of one of those Supers–a Dreadnought. Not to sneak you into orbit.”

“And you can do all of that,” said Kleya. “Everything you mentioned is on the repair side of the yards, not the administrative ring–”

“–surely you know why we would want to disable the command center,” replied Rieekan, stressing the final words. 

“That can happen from the inside,” she argued. This was the crux of her plan, and the most dangerous bit: the infiltration. Yet everything she had heard from Tavin Arros had painted a picture of not just a power vacuum but a leadership adrift, without regular assistance and an assembly line of replacement officers stepping in on from the various Destroyers. “Vel and I fly in on a shuttle the day before. Give us the time we need inside, wait for our signal. They change which starship is on duty every week, right, but there’s overlap. I can fix that, make something go just wrong enough.”

The thin man studied her, his eyes narrowed. “I’d almost prefer going in blind, Marki,” he said finally, “than greenlighting one of your missions. Just what do you think this asset has to share?”

In truth, from what Kleya could tell, Arros had nothing: no friends, no credits, no career. It was a risky wager, to bet that the wild promises he had made to her over the radio waves were real, and not a fabrication, something designed to spark her interest and get her to arrange a flight off-world, and out of the Empire’s clutches.

But he had sent the first message naming Meero unprompted, and every one since had not just the stench of desperation but the faintest aroma of truth about it. The latest was not just a promise but a pledge: Get me out. I have what you want on Meero. I will have more soon.

And Kleya knew there was something there. Even if it ended up being nothing, she would have an answer to the why of it. This was not something she could say to Rieekan, so she found herself smiling and skirting the truth, ignoring that nervous itch at the back of her neck. “I need to go myself,” she said. “It’s the only way he’ll share. But it’s big. It’s worth the risk. And while I’m there, I’ll make sure the timing is perfect for your attack, too.”

She was solving a major problem with his attack plans, and they both knew it. Rieekan could have said no; there were other ways to the same end: a false ship flown in with bombs aboard, to disable the shields, a feint in a neighboring system to draw away backup. But she was the first at his door, and he wanted a victory: the Empire had won a few over on the Alliance in the Mid-Rim, and headquarters had the beginnings of a whiff of desperation. The Mon Calamari fleet had taken to running their own engagements, under a new fishy-faced Admiral named Ackbar, and Rieekan felt pushed out. 

“We don’t have many shuttles,” he said. “And the codes are a bit old.”

“They’ll do.”

–––

Kleya shifted uncomfortably in the pilot’s seat, her palms sweaty against the slick black of the controllers. They were still an hour out from arriving at Fondor, and this no-mans-land between action and reaction meant she had time to sit and think and consider what might go wrong in the next twenty-four hours. Discovery could be imminent: she could be taken in, captured, interrogated, disposed of after being drained dry–

“I was five months on Aldhani,” Vel said. “That rainy, desolate world. We ate ration packs at first, before we were able to farm. Meat, milk–both a rarity. An indulgence, something we traded for with the Dhani tribesmen.” Vel was dressed as an Imperial officer, her hair pinned back under her hat, and the expression she gave Kleya would have fit neatly on the bridge of any Destroyer. “I spent a lot of time waiting and thinking and wondering. I spent a lot of time planning, counting men, counting routes, making sure I was sure of everyone there. Do you know what I learned, in those five months?”

Kleya did not look at her; she knew what she would see. Vel had always been cool, calm, steady under pressure. Luthen had been cooler still. 

She supposed she was good at this too, but that was in the doing of it, the moving, the moment itself. The waiting was terrible. “What did you learn?” she asked finally.

“We have the plan: we stick to the plan.”

“We have the plan,” repeated Kleya back to her, and let her hands relax a bit on the controls. Plans never lasted first contact; they broke, they changed, they warped. And that was what she was good at, pivoting and turning disaster into opportunity. “That was a hard time.”

“A different time.” Vel was staring out of the viewfinder at the front of the shuttle, watching streaks of white blur into infinity as they hurtled through hyperspace. “I never thought I’d miss it.”

“You don’t miss it,” said Kleya, understanding. “What you do miss is your innocence. The time before. How much we hoped.”

“Hope is dangerous,” Vel said. “I won’t deny it. Hope cost me everything. But I would never regret having it.” 

“The plan,” said Kleya, gently. The two of them had been thrown together more often of late, two old relics in a rebellion that had moved past them, and they could see and speak to each other in half sentences in a way that Rieekan or even Mon Mothma could not. Vel had been her first call when she needed an escape route off of Fondor the first time, and her first pick for today’s heist.

She hoped that it would not be the last time they worked together.   

“We have an hour yet. Do you want to play sabacc?” Vel produced a deck from inside her jacket and smiled, a sharkish expression on her lips.  

Kleya wondered how many times she’d held up that deck on Aldhani, during those five months. It couldn’t have been much; they had decided not to use lanterns at night, and they’d arrived in late spring when daylight was precious. “Go ahead and deal.”

The cards were shuffled with alarming precision, each snapping together like the teeth of a docking clamp. They played in silence, mostly, sometimes exclaiming in delight with a certain lucky hand, and relying on their expressions to carry the conversation: draw, stand, bid. 

Vel won handily, and swept up the cards with a deeply satisfied smirk just moments before they popped out of hyperspace into the tractor beam of the Star Destroyer on duty. 

This part was all rote: codes, permission to dock, and it was just moments before the shuttlecraft’s board lit up green once again. As she guided the shuttle into the docking bay, Kleya listened to Vel’s drily bored Imperial voice, and recognized in it a bit of the drily bored and mindless dilettante she had been on Chandrila and wondered that no one could connect the two.

By the time they landed, Kleya was helmeted and somber; just a humble pilot. This part of the job was Vel’s to play, for being just a few floors away from Dedra Meero was far too much of a risk otherwise. 

She followed Vel obediently down the ramp, to stand behind her at parade rest while she argued with the stern-faced woman with the clipboard who had greeted them 

“Captain Birr is bringing the Vindicator in for repairs in under forty-eight hours, and he wants everything arranged beforehand,” Vel was saying hotly, outraged on the behalf of this Captain whose Destroyer was actually quite damaged indeed, but very unlikely to get out of the Mid-Rim, according to Rieekan. “He is deeply dissatisfied with the repair delays from this facility. Fondor is closest but we can limp to Kuat if you are turning us away–”

“–no one is turning anyone away,” said the clerk. “But you’re not on the records, and neither is the Vindicator. We’ve already got four ships in dock.” 

“Three,” snapped Vel. “Unless you’re counting the one that intercepted us? I don’t see much repairing going on. I insist on being given a tour of the yards.” 

“No one gets in the yards. And we’re overbooked.”

“We’re in a war, Ensign.” Vel rolled over the objection with ease. “We’re better than those animals but only if we act like it. If you can’t find the Vindicator a berth then I’ll need to contact Captain Birr right away.” 

They squabbled like chickens for a while, pecking for ascendancy, and eventually Vel won, gesturing imperiously with her hand for the Ensign to lead on. “Oh,” she said, almost as if an afterthought. “My pilot will need quarters while I’m in dock. Make it happen.”

A few minutes later, Kleya was in her new temporary quarters, unhelmeted, and busy stripping down to the second pair of scrubs she had hidden beneath the pilot’s suit. Ten minutes after that, she had liberated a janitor’s pass from an uncautious servant, and began making rounds with a lowered head and a push-pail in front of her. While most menial roles were done by droids, there were some higher-security areas where sentients were used, especially here, and Kleya made her slow way down to the dormitory wing, all the way to Tavin Arros’s door. 

He was not as happy to see her as she’d hoped, and most of that was because she had the delightful task of telling him what his part of the plan entailed.  

“There’s no way I’m getting her code cylinders from her,” he said coldly. “She wears them every day, it’s part of her uniform.”

Kleya smiled, shifted slightly in her janitor’s uniform, and resumed sipping her caf.

“They never leave her sight except when she’s sleeping, and Dedra doesn’t do that half as much as you’d think.”

Whatever machine Arros was using to brew this cup dearly needed cleaning; it was thick and burnt and tasted of grounds. She smiled again, despite it.

“I know what you are asking of me,” he finally bit out. “But this is ridiculous.”

“She’s been to your door numerous times even after house arrest, you said as much yourself,” Kleya pointed out. “We have every reason to believe this is welcomed.”

“It’s not. She’s watching me, it’s all a game to her, just like the rest of the snakes at the Bureau. If you checked her temperature you’d mistake her for a Trandoshan.”

Kleya found, unexpectedly, she was enjoying this. It was usually Luthen who visited the asset, twisted their arm; she typically played the role of support, listening in on the radio and monitoring for Imperial interference. But this was instead quite fun, and somehow she felt that Arros knew she was gloating inwardly, and resented her for it. “What exactly did you have for me that is worth your life that is not in her files?”

Arros’s teeth ground together. He was a taller man, broad in the shoulder, and the type that could go quickly to fat if left idle, and the beginnings of it was showing with how his uniform stretched across his chest, straining. Kleya hoped that would not upset their plans. “I should report you to the Bureau,” he said. “I lured you here. I’d be a hero. This isn’t worth it–”

“–yes, that will go well for you,” said Kleya, suddenly steely-eyed. “A disgraced Major who mysteriously finds a rebel spy in his quarters. I would not hold back: I am here to rescue you, and your bank account is very easily traced, as are all those bribes you accepted. You have years of history: your friends on Bothawui, now part of the Alliance. You’re in this far too deep; had you spoken to the ISB when you were first contacted, perhaps, but now. Now is far too late. 

“I am your only hope, Tavin Arros. And the only way we get out alive is if you do exactly as I say.”

He brooded quite well for a blonde, smoldering in anger. “And it has to happen today.”

“Tonight,” she said smoothly. “It has to happen by tonight.”

Chapter Text

Dedra was not expecting the knock at her door. She had been in the bathroom mirror, staring at her clouded reflection emerging from the steam of the faucet as it ran wastefully into the sink at her waist, studying how her eyes bent downwards at their corners just like her mouth, and trying on expressions: a soft smile, a stern smirk, a serious sneer. 

None of them quite fit her, although some of those faces felt natural, something she could slip on or into at a moment’s notice. She knew that she was looking for the real Dedra: the young girl that had been so eager to please her teachers at the Kinder-block, the one who had her fingers slapped with a ruler for shouting the answers at the back of the classroom, instead of waiting for her turn. 

“You put yourself first,” the teacher said disapprovingly, back then. “You must learn to hold yourself back, to wait until you are spoken to, or asked a question.” 

She had learned; she changed. Dedra folded herself into the shape and shadow of what was expected, what her teachers wanted, and when she left, quiet and serious-eyed, she’d gone into the Bureau with their approval. But Dedra knew somewhere inside of her was still that girl, and so she stared, looking for her: the child who wanted to not fit in but instead to stand at the top of the playground and scream in joy, and did not care that others disapproved. 

When the knock interrupted her, the expression that fell first over her face was annoyance. This was her evening, the one day a week she snuck away and selected for herself only, a prize possession she pried from the schedules and mandates of Fondor’s shipyards. 

And then she watched as the cool mask fell over her face once again, the familiar, idly bored expression she cultivated so carefully. I don’t care what you do, it said. I don’t even want to be here. 

When she opened the door, and saw Tavin Arros nervously standing there with a bottle of expensive Alderaanian wine cradled under his left arm, she nearly shut the door on his face. There were so many reasons not to see him, and so many reasons she didn’t expect him to come in her orbit again. Letting him in, so she could watch him: that was what ISB wanted her to do, of course. 

She would do what was best for the Empire. She must.

“Tavin,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“I wanted to apologize,” he said abruptly. “For how rudely I spoke to you the other day. I know you have only had the best in mind for me, and I know you could have–I know you didn’t–it was rude.”  

Dedra wasn’t quite sure what he was referring to. “Of course,” she said again. 

“Dedra,” he said, and she could not help but mark the change from the last time they had spoken, where she was the chilly Captain, instead. “Must I apologize out here, in this hallway?”

She sadly waved away the remainder of her evening: duty called. “Do come in,” she said.

It was horribly awkward. Dedra did not know where to put her hands, at first, and when the bottle of wine was thrust into hers, it was almost a relief. Find the winepull, and two glasses. Listen to the apology. Make reciprocal, noncommittal noises at appropriate times.

Every other time that Tavin had been in her quarters it was planned, her living room carefully staged for the parties: catering on the wide dining table; the shades pulled apart to allow the sparkling starlight views to be cooed at; company, so she could stand off to the side and smile, and listen, and not need to engage so deeply.  

Even when they had been briefly partnered, she had arranged for them rarely to be alone: shared dinners; the hubbub of an event happening behind them; sometimes watching a show, or a play. He had sensed her need for quiet and had seemed to be fine with it, always chattering on. And on. Just like he was doing now, the glass of wine already half empty in his hand as he waved it about.

“I’m sure I will be able to overcome this,” he was saying, “now that there’s such definitive proof I was never involved, nor knew that woman.”

Dedra fastened on to the sentence like a viper, hearing the cadence of his words again playing in her head. That woman, that woman. Just one of them, and there were two, and the other a Bothan, and then there was that thick loathing in his voice. It felt strange to have such hatred for a person one did not know personally.

But on the other hand: she did not know Marki either, just her shape, that of a creature that had ruined her life once, and had tried to do it again. Perhaps, she allowed, some hatred was permitted. “I understand,” she said, as the air had stretched thin with silence and something more than a uhm-hm appeared to be needed. 

“I am glad you understand,” said Tavin, and then gave her a real smile, his green eyes crinkling like they used to, even if there was something in them she didn’t quite recognize. “I hated being there, thinking that you thought I was responsible for this. That I could be.” 

She did not bring up the inch-thick ISB report on him that Ozzel had been quietly preparing. “I would never believe that,” she lied, and offered that soft smile she had been practicing, and even if it never did feel right on her face, it worked now, for his whole demeanor changed. 

“I was wondering,” he said quietly, “if you’d like to try again. We can take it slow. We should. But I’d like to try. Maybe we finish the bottle of wine, and talk about something other than work.”

“Is there something other than work?” she asked, and she had not meant it as a joke. When he laughed, that full-belly chuckle that was his wont, she hated a bit that even now, even after he was a target, getting his approval felt nice. 

“There can be,” he said, when he was done; she had not joined in the laughter. “Look, I won’t keep you up too late. But there’s no reason for you to be uncomfortable, or in your dress greys; go ahead and change. Maybe that will get you out of the mindset of ‘work.’”

Almost she wished for there to be an emergency, some ringing alarm bell that summoned her to the administrative offices or the security bay. But there was no reason to have either of those, not right now; Ozzel had the helm, and what the ISB wanted from her now was to be here, and to get whatever she could out of Tavin Arros, the Bothan conspirator they had let loose to run back to their nest.

She would accommodate him, this time. And, as she left for her bedroom to change and gave him that coy smile she’d used only rarely, Dedra rationalized it: it would be more comfortable, and seeing her out of uniform would mean that he might forget that she was the one who tossed him into prison. Albeit temporarily.

When she reemerged, draped in something sensible and cream-colored, and which vaguely reminded her of her old ISB whites, he had taken a seat at the center of the u-shaped sunken couch, and pulled the shades wide to reveal the sparkling skies, and had refilled her glass.  

“Join me,” he said, gesturing to the seat beside him–her seat, her couch, even, “and let me tell you about the latest art installation I heard they are building in Fondor City.”

She smiled dutifully, calm and clinical, and took a seat.

–––

In the middle of the night, Dedra woke up out of a restless, wine-bothered sleep to alarms: inding sirens in a screeching wail, and red, flashing lights that splattered angrily against the grey walls of her bedchamber in a kaleidoscope of panic. 

In the groggy haze the first thing she thought of was Tavin spilling his second glass on her pristine cream sofa, and the heap of towels he had run to fetch from her bedroom while apologizing profusely. It was not the first spill she had suffered but it was an unwelcome end to the night, and after they had cleaned the sofa, he had slunk out of her apartment with shame in his eyes.

She had finished the bottle herself, Alderaan wasn’t coming back and the wine was good, and had drunk enough that it kept her tossing and turning on sweat-dampened sheets.

The second thing was that this was an attack on Fondor, and was something she had trained for, a hundred drills at the Academy and even more at the over-eager knee of her first obsessive Supervisor in the Enforcement branch. And so despite the wine-thick head, in three seconds she was at her bedroom’s terminal reading outputs of garbled reports of a fleet of X-wings breaking the perimeter and closing fast on their shipyards.

She supposed she could have just looked outside, had the curtains not been drawn. 

The next few minutes were a blur: Dedra rushed to dress, praising her foresight of having already pressed her uniform the night before, and by the time she was at her door, there was a sweaty aide handing her a datapad.

He took a left, and Dedra faltered, having begun to stride the other way, and then she turned to follow him to hide her surprise. Of course: not her office, but the command deck. It was a place she seldom entered, choosing instead to run operations from her comfortable, private office in the administrative wing; this was the territory of the ISB, and Ozzel, as well as the attache for the Destroyer on patrol.

“Where is Ozzel?” she asked, flipping through the early reports and noting an absence of her name, something she found unusual. Despite her earlier run-ins with the Supervisor, after the reveal of Dedra’s ISB connections, the agent had turned into something of an asset, and someone she felt she could rely on.

“Trying to locate, sir,” said the aide. They were pushing through the hallway to the security elevator that was not just abuzz but had the aura of panic, something Dedra felt her lips tug down disapprovingly to see: not just pilots, but civilians and the tall, long-necked Fondorians alike were rushing to places, their eyes wide and rolling under the whirling red alarm lights.

When they arrived at the lift for the command deck it was far less chaotic, with two posted stormtroopers with steady hands on their rifles guarding entry. Her aide swiped them in, and it was just moments before the doors slid open to the seldom-entered pen: a set of low desks with terminals, all manned, with an elevated corridor set between them that led to a massive viewscreen of the yards.

Outside the visuals of what had already been appearing on her datapad in glaring red numbers were obvious: green, blue, and orange-labeled insurgent starships swooping and diving and firing unimpeded on the unguarded, unprotected Star Destroyers docked at repair rings two, three, four, and five. In the distance, she saw another glimmer that might be yet another set of insurgent ships, headed to the construction docks where the latest Super Star Destroyer was being built, and materials . 

She stopped in the lift doorway, temporarily speechless. When she tore her eyes from the viewscreen, the second thing she noticed was that everyone had  turned to her, expectant: and no one, save her now, was on the command deck. “Where is Ozzel?” she asked again. And then, staring at repair ring four: “Why is the Shrike not on patrol duty?” 

There was not a single person in the entire bay of officers who had a ready answer to either of her questions, and for the moment Dedra had to stop asking and concentrate on what was happening before her. 

She snapped orders to the Defiant, the Destroyer receiving the least amount of enemy fire, to detach from its repair bay and swing its lasers to the insurgents, who were currently attacking their undefended forces; she sent out alerts to Coruscant and the Joint Chiefs of the attack; she ordered the TIE garrisons on each of the more seriously damaged Destroyers scrambled.

And when there was a lull, when finally there seemed to be a turning of the battle, it all came out, slowly: Ozzel had left the command deck a few hours ago, and had not been seen since, and a set of fresh orders had come in from Dedra’s own office shortly thereafter from Ozzel, ordering the early docking of the Shrike to "accelerate the repair schedule.” An order additionally authorized by Dedra’s own code cylinders.

“Impossible,” she snapped, and felt for the code cylinders at her breastpockets, and felt reassured to feel them still there. “I was asleep at that time.”

Outside, the Defiant had finally been able to detach, and was turning its turbolasers on the X-wings alongside the TIEs swarming in space, but it was much too late: three out of the four repair rings had been pounded by proton torpedos, and the newly repaired Shrike was ablaze. In the far distance, the skeleton of the Super Star Destroyer was cracked and broken.

“Sir,” called out the ensign posted at the front. “The Joint Chiefs are on the line; I need your code to confirm acceptance.” 

Dedra pulled away from the annoying aide and steeled herself internally, her mind racing with ways to reframe this attack as she strode to the terminal. Whether it would be Director Krennic or Admiral Piett, this would be bad, and first impressions were everything. In the Mid-Rim, the Empire had some minor losses, but nothing on this scale, nothing that would set back the Fleet quite like this. And she had done just fine with defense up to now, making due with half-damaged Destroyers limping around on patrol, with her own TIE garrisons had been moved off-world and no fully-operational ships at all.

But when she got to the terminal, and pulled out her code cylinders, instead of the comforting green, it flashed red. She tried again, pulling them out to reinsert–they were a bit sticky, and sometimes blowing on them would work, like there was dust caught in the vents–and this time it flashed again, and the words DENIED appeared in fat letters, paired with Tavin Arros’ name and rank. 

She stared at the cylinders in her hand, and a growing pit began to gnaw at her in her stomach. “Tell the Joint Chiefs I will be with them shortly,” she said slowly, then whirled on her heel. “You–” she pointed to a nervous lieutenant on duty. “Take two troopers and go to Tavin Arros’ quarters and put him under arrest. Put out a low priority alert that he is to be seized on sight.

“And you–” she pointed to the aide. “With me, to my office.”

“The battle–”

“The battle will be won by the Captain of the Defiant,” she said coldly. It was at least true; the orders she was giving now were superficial, and besides, Navy now or not, at her core she was no battle commander. “Follow me.”

In her clean, carefully curated office, was Ozzel’s body, folded up like flotsam underneath her desk.