OOC:

Been meaning to post this for ages. Just a little filler into the many moving parts this story needed to get rolling. Not mission critical in the least. Carry on.

Most of them had been here for hours, partaking of the gaming tables, live entertainment, or just sampling in the tasting room of the finest wines and whiskeys he could obtain. Sitting uncomfortably and trying to blend in were a host of attaches and bodyguards. Most of them were doing a very poor job of keeping a low profile. Perhaps it was the high and tight haircuts or maybe the too-crisply-laundered civvies.

It didn't matter. The usual host of bouncers had been beefed up by ICDF off-duty regulars hanging out in great numbers and a full two squads of very-noticeable and very-menacing Dashade mercenaries that gave a universal "don't start a damn thing" message to anyone even walking by the establishment.

In any event, getting beings like this to relax for any length of time was nigh impossible. They just weren’t wired that way.

Eventually, however, it was time for business. Of a sort.

He opened up the salon and invited his guests, co-workers, allies, and all-around fellow Imperials to sit in comfort and snack on a light repast while they contemplated the mission they were about to commit themselves to.

He felt good for the first time in months. Actually, that wasn't exactly true. He was as fit as he ever was. He felt himself for the first time in ages. Sure, there was a supercomputer along his spinal column, his left eye could see into deep space, and his left arm could double as an autocannon, but that was the new him. There was no going back, and he'd finally come to accept that as reality.

And just in time. There was work to do. Not just the work of re-assigning units or adding new rocks to the territorial maps. Not making sure the production lines had orders and the shipping vessels were crammed to the gills. Not the therapy or the memory exercises or the need to be in five places at once to be present for things no one gave a damn about anyway.

No, work. The labors of war. You could smell it in the air. Like a pheromonal vapor coming off everyone in the room. Like electricity in the air. For as much as they all hated death and destruction in principle, they were built for this work. And like any unused tool, when the time was ripe, they was ready - and maybe a bit too eager -  to do their duty.

---

He let the session open slowly. There were officers working on need-to-know, intelligence operatives guarding secrets, corporates looking not to commit to anything or give anything away, politicians doing the same but moreso, and activists trusting no one and getting the same in return. In the end though, they needed each other to get this thing done.

And in the end, as he had hoped, General Creighton Cierva was the man to do it. Elderly, respected, crusty as the soil of a wasteland planet, Cierva was also a person no one could say was out to give you anything but a piece of his mind. He had no agenda, other than to get unimportant things out of his way.

He stood up and gave a loud, shrill whistle. This quieted most of the tables, and he took a sip from his glass of whiskey as others shushed their neighbors.

“This is fine and all and good to see most of you, but this old man plans on a steak dinner and a good night’s sleep. So let’s quit pretending we’re in some kind of competition and get on with this. I’ll show you mine if you show me your’s. Okay?”

This got a chuckle and he nodded to Fury, who nodded right back. Sensing they’d reached a moment of much needed focus, he started.

“Thank you General. I hope you are all enjoying yourselves, and I also hope you are ready to haggle - and get on board with the plan. We’ve had a hell of a time getting all of you together without guards, aides, and unnecessary agendas tripping over each other and I appreciate you all giving up a little face to get a place at the table.

“That said, we need to take things a bit further. You know why we are here. The whole galaxy took it on the chin a few years back, but we did not do as poorly. Sure, we were all eating hardtack and beans at the worst of it and not a damn thing looks like it did before the Plague Wars. We’ve expanded our corner of the galaxy, taken in a billion or so new citizens, added worlds who wouldn’t have looked at us twice in calmer times. But we are here, thriving even when so many others are still looking for a roof over their heads and a world that will take them in as something more than refugees. We have learned the price of a life, and the value of it.

“As the sages tell us, ‘Life is to be lived, not feared.’

“That is why we are here today. To stop hiding at the edge of the galaxy and take advantage of a bad situation. There are worlds looking for order and others looking for a good buttkicking.” This garnered a few laughs. “Now, before I turn it over to open discussion, let’s make a few things clear.

“One, yes, we are still Imperials. We aren’t kowtowing to Thrawn or sucking up to Isard, but we have not set Lord Kadann up as a warlord. We just have a disagreement with the current pretenders to the throne. That’s it. If they stay out of our way, all to the good. If not? Well, we’ve got a bit more bite than we used to.

“Two, yes, we realize we are being suckered in a pack of folks who have both real and imagined issues with the current leaders of their former homes.” A smattering of protests began in the back of the room. “Look, you can admit you are trying to play us and just make this go a lot easier. It is okay. We need a reason, and you need a fleet and army to achieve your vengeance. As long as we put it all on the table, no one has anything to regret later.

“Three, I’m only here to gin up some business and provide you guys some cover to be in the same room. There are enough government and military heads to handle that end of the deal. I, and a bunch of other corporates are here to turn a credit or two. You want an exclusive right to rule. We want a cut of the market. Yes, this *is* collusion. Yes, this is *not* fair. We are planning the rough draft of an invasion and takeover of a very, very important piece of galactic real estate. You can’t do it alone. The Vast Empire doesn’t have a reason that will fly on it’s own merit. The partisans who want to get their homes back and get vengeance on those who ran them off can’t raise enough mercs to tackle a real sector military. Our military can’t run a supply line for food, parts, and non-military transport without the private sector reorganizing and pitching in.

“So, over the next few days we need to keep those things - at the least - in mind. We need each other. Let’s act like it. I have knowledge that our military is mobilizing to start setting the table. There are things we need to do before a full assault can commence. There are countermoves our adversaries are planning. Some we know of, and have hopes of blunting. Other things will be a surprise. THEY are taking this seriously, we need to play catch up and get in the game. And, yes, they are planning to hit us. They’ve always taken a swipe at our shipping, killed some of our citizens. We’ve received the bulk of their non-rebel malcontents, for better or worse. And, they are building up their fleets. In a few moments, you’ll see how that affects us as well. This is happening, we have to be ready for it.

“You know where I stand. I’m just hosting this party, barring a few things I’d like to get out of this, I’m open to discussion and agreement. So, fill your glasses, make a toast to common goals, and let us get down to brass tacks people.”

One toast turned into about a dozen, but eventually chairs and tables were shuffled, the various parties broke up into groups and the hard discussion finally began.

---

The hard part, of course, was in agreeing to do something they all believed they really did not need to.

They had fared better than their neighbors during recent years. They came close to starving, but no one died of hunger. Or, in the main, of any of the plagues. They had grown, taking in over a billion refugees, turning most into productive citizens, reseeding worlds and expanding their corner of the Empire in ways they never would have given their original resources and population. But, still, they hesitated. They bickered, timidly looking for someone else to carry the load.

The Corellians were really the issue here, the catalysts for change. Many of the refugees from the Corellian sector were just regular folk. Some, however, were cast off by the government. Either too pro-Imperial or pro-independence to be left on the sidelines when the worlds decided to align with the New Republic. And even the latter were cast off in the so-called Bloodstripe Conspiracy, when ties to the former Alliance was suspect and a military junta took over.

All this meant to anyone taking in Corellians were a lot of proud and pissed off people who once had the levers of power and wanted it back again. They meant to pull the Vast Empire in, establishing terror groups and sending back agitators to spur a war. In the main, they had failed. However, they did manage to make the Corellians look their way, see what they had preserved, and what they had gained when so many others lost.

And, that, in the end, was what Fury had called this meeting for. He’d lost sleep for trying to hold the line and too many pounds from eating the same fiber-filled crap everyone else had during the lean years. He’d lost limbs to New Republic scum and had his people suffer and die for the secrets he spilled under torture. And he *still* didn’t want this war.

But they were coming for him and his anyway. It was time to let everyone in on the details.

First, they had to have a talk about an orbital junkyard most folks forgot existed and then another about some new walker tech most of them didn’t know they wanted.

“Can we trust them?” asked Struve.

“To do what?” replied Cierva. “To stab us in the back the moment they think they’ve got what they want? Sure. No, they’re playing a good game, but in the end they are Corellians.”

Commodore Gregor Hanf held in the sip he just took. Cierva waved him off. “I’m Saccorian, I’ve earned the right to talk smack about my former neighbors.”

The three had a private table at the back of the Kindred Spirits where the meeting had been conducted. Grand General Creighton Cierva was having a time of it, but it had been a very long day. He was old when the Galactic Civil War started and he was positively ancient these days. But he remained fit, aware, informed, and - most importantly - in charge. This last, much to the chagrin of many a senior officer who thought he’d been pulled out of retirement to be a venerable figurehead to the resurgent Vast Empire military.

High General Armin Struve was his protege in all but name. Cierva had brought him over from another Imperial faction, remembering a young captain who had served him well during the early years fighting the nascent Rebellion. Together they had revamped the Vast Empire Imperial Army, improving the regular forces, incorporating the existing planetary units and militias when new worlds signed up with the government on Lotaith, and integrating the millions of refugee “volunteers” who enlisted to earn their families citizenship points as well as to do anything to get out of a ‘fuge camp.

Commodore Hanf was relatively wet behind the ears compared to the other two. How they let him hang around was beyond him. As commander of the Fourteenth Fleet - the “Frontier Rangers” - he was a newcomer to the Vast Empire, and the Empire itself. He was, however, the highest ranking “local” in either the Fleet or Corps. Rising through the ranks, first as a local anti-piracy privateer, he became part of the expanded Cerean regional fleets that held local sway, giving way to the Gran, then later Sector-approved corporate fleets that maintained the trade lanes. When the Vast Empire came looking for experienced leadership, he was referred by many a potentate whose planet had been well served by his fleets.

And now he found himself as head of a fleet of a territorial defense fleet for an Imperial faction. He knew the Fourteenth was seen as a joke by the rest of the Fleet. Small but fast capital ships whose job was to stop pirates and smugglers and refugee ships from violating the spacelines the Vast Empire claimed as their own. New ships, new crews, not a “real” fighting force.

But they’d done their jobs well. No plague had entered the systems on his watch. No enemy force had established a foothold in VE space. The lines had held and then some.

Now he and much of the fleet had been tasked with assisting in a new campaign, taking the fight to their adversaries. The mission was essentially the same. Hold the transit lanes, assist with supply lines, keep out the riff-raff - or recruit them if they had potential. About a third of his purported TO&E were just quasi-reformed pirates with letters of marque from some corner office on Lotaith. Which he hoped were worth more than the flimsiplast they were printed on since the bulk of the Fourteenth was now mobilizing for this offensive and away from their normal stations.

For now though, they had some days to hash out battleplans, coerce a bunch of would be “freedom fighters” and businessbeings to commit their resources to the plan. And, oh, the keep it all as quiet as could be.

Right.

He imagined it was going to be a bloodbath either way but this was a hell of a way to run a war. He probably trusted, or at least could predict the actions and reactions of, his adversaries better than this odd assembly of allies.

He was meditating when he felt familiar auras in distress. First they were elated, tracking their prey. And suddenly, nothing but confusion, loss, and anger. And then, a flash of the Force. Muted, quickly used, but distinct.

He opened his eyes and retained a sense of the touch.. A taste that perhaps a Nek battle dog could follow to ground. He was better than a trained tracker. He was more patient, curious, and even a bit more eager.

He arose, quickly cleansed himself from the evening’s training regimen, and followed his senses. Here, he was among other Force users. After all, the Empire’s business was being conducted and he was not the only Dark Jedi tasked to this space station.  Even so, he did not alert them. They had their roles to play. His was bit more conflicted. He served the Empire, but he was also tasked to protect the Operations Officer and those who served close to him. He took both roles seriously, but the latter had been the more entertaining of late.

He moved almost faster than sight, quickly overtaking the target Force user, a young female who was, frankly, too much a novice to be placed in the field so young. He stopped to see if a mentor - dare he say?, a Master - was supervising this operation.

No. Perhaps not. Maybe the Corellians *were* this short of resources. It bode well for the coming campaign.

He waited to see what her next move was. Ah, of course. She had been given a tiny slipship, a reconnaissance vessel slightly doctored to look like a common commercial craft. He himself was berthed only a hangar over, thankful for the opportunity to give chase. He contacted flight operations through his datapad and went to his fighter. He had become a fan of the TIE Revir models and had one specially modified for his needs.

He launched and slipped below the station. The more he worked with beings who were not spacers, the more he found they thought in conventional land-based patterns. They almost never looked at relative “up* and almost certainly never looked *down*. This worked even as they sensed things in the Force. So, he let her craft get a lead, getting a greater “taste” of her Force impression as she moved away from the station, jettisoned the decorative pieces that masked her ship’s true capabilities, and then went into hyperspace.

Even just a couple years ago this would be problematic for even a Dark Jedi such as himself, but he had been learning. Along with picking up millions of refugees, Vast Empire scouting teams had found lost worlds, with resources, old civilizations rediscovered - and hermitages belonging to both Jedi and Sith followers. Much had been re-learned in the academies as holocrons and ancient scrolls were deciphered. One of these handy tasks was the skill of tracking a Force user even in the realm of hyperspace. Granted, you could not do it for long, but he had a sense of her, her path, and his experience that she would be leaving carefully, with only short microjumps. If he was wrong, he would lose her. But he was rarely wrong.

The first jump was but a few minutes. He arrived, as suspected, only moments after she had made her second jump, also easily tracked. The third, and then a fourth, were equally quick.

He arrived only moments behind her as she entered the gravity well of a local body known as an independent world, catering to credits more than ideology. Perfect, the law could be bought here, or coerced to look the other way.

He smiled one of his rare grins and charted a course to the main planetary starport.

Hanf was refilling everyone’s glasses from a bottle they had taken from the soiree. Cierva was giving a clinic in how to remember names and faces as he went down the list of attendees. He looked up at the sound of a couple of the Dashade guards rising to confront a newcomer walking quickly into the bar.

One settled onto his heels as the other moved to block the man’s path. It was Prater, nominally in charge of the Corellian terrorists cum “freedom fighters”. After a moment conferring with someone via comlink, he was allowed to pass. He made a bee-line to the officers.

“We may have a problem. One of my people is missing. I suspect - have suspected - she may be a Jedi plant. I have no reason to prove that, I just….”

“You just *feel* it,” said Cierva. The man nodded. “Yeah, I’ve got a lifetime of experience in that field. If we had the time, I’d kick my boots up on this nice table and tell you all about the pre-Order 66 military.” He earned blank stares. “Never mind.”

“Have a seat Prater. Tell us why you are worried and why you came to us. We’ve got time for that at least.” He waved over a waiter and got a fresh glass. Hanf did the pouring.

---

Fury watched from the overwatch office. Interesting bedfellows indeed. He quietly let the staff know to gently ease the remaining guests out. His inskin was starting to receive holos and text updates from the team Kuin had deployed and someone kept flashing images into his head like he knew how to make sense of them or something. Even more interesting. Walking over to the office bar, he pulled out a rare bottle of his favorite smoke whiskey and prepared to go downstairs. Once he was up to speed, he’d see what his guest had managed to figure out on their own.