Tell the Truth, Kaist/Prologue

Prologue "What price for a life? Life is not cheap. It is expensive. Death is cheap because it can be so easily acquired. Statesmen must remember this for it is they who must spend lives. Weep for me, children. I am the demon so that you might be angels."

- Pharios Nikkel, Imperial Warlord

Drifting in the cold depths of star-bedecked space, light-years from anywhere, was a white dagger of martial might. Sixteen hundred meters of armored hull bristling with six score batteries of death, an Imperial-class Star Destroyer beckoned ominously as no lesser vessel could ever hope to manage. Larger starships there were, indeed, but not even the colossus of a Star Dreadnought could compare with the pure evocation of a lone Star Destroyer. Such a sight bespoke volumes, for it was a symbol of so much more. For some, Star Destroyers bespoke strength, order, protection, and security. For others, they whispered in tones of trepidation invasion, tyranny, and oppression. Simply put, they bespoke the Empire.

Aboard the newly arrived escort shuttle, in the cockpit standing behind the crew, back to the door, face to the viewport, Governor Raynar Thecgeot appreciated the sight and all its implications. For, as a loyal son of the New Order, he understood the necessity of symbols. Ideas were intangible unless given something to embody them. Order was an idea, the Empire’s idea, and laws were the execution of order. But fear of law preceded love of law. A symbol was needed to inspire fear so that love might follow, and, at least in space, the Imperial-class was that symbol.

Was this right or wrong? Was it moral to rely on fear? Thecgeot was not in a position to say, and truth be told, it did not matter. For citizens to fear not love their rulers was, of course, lamentable. However, reality trumped preference. What was good was not always needed, and what was needed was not always good.

The shuttle’s communications officer, handpicked like the whole crew for unswerving loyalty as troubled times required, spoke to the pilot. His formality was plainly for Thecgeot’s benefit. “We’re being hailed, sir. ISD Vitupur requests we confirm our identity.”

Commander Ethaeda, the pilot, replied with equal formality, “Return hailing. Inform them shuttle Eswitha has arrived carrying Governor Thecgeot.” While the communications officer complied, Ethaeda twisted his neck around to partially face Thecgeot and unnecessarily inform him, “We’re transmitting codes now, Governor Thecgeot. We should begin docking within minutes.”

With a curt nod and sigh, really more of a weary exhale, Thecgeot turned away and returned to the passenger compartment. He sat in one of the seats, first allowing himself a moment to flex his cramped muscles. For a man of sixty-one years, give or take a few if one preferred the local calendars, he was physically hale. But life took its toll. No doctor could heal the weariness plaguing those who had seen their cherished dreams break on the reality of...reality.

Yswenia Wynscell, his aide for the past two years, looked up from the datapad she was reading as he settled in. “You look terrible, sir,” she said wryly.

Thecgeot grunted. “Then I look how I feel.”

“If so, then brace yourself for bad news, sir. High General Sennel won’t be there. He says his forces’ situation doesn’t allow it.” As was frequently her style, Wynscell observed the obvious and proceeded to inform him anyway. She apparently considered it amusing, probably the last trace of the witty young woman her profile recorded her being before her father, brothers, and husband died fighting the New Republic.

Thecgeot looked sharply at her. “You knew this before we departed, didn’t you?”

His aide lifted an eyebrow. “We were in hyperspace, sir. Were you expecting to receive it in transit?”

“You should have told me before we left. I need to know these things.”

"As your aide, maintaining your fitness for office is also my duty, sir. You were unusually tense. I deemed it wise at the time to let you be. You’re important to us, you know.”

Her words rang with a simple honesty that somehow left the governor feeling ashamed. He cleared his throat. “Yswenia Wynscell, I don’t say this often enough, but you’re a good woman. Better than I deserve. I am amiss to not, whilst I can, thank you for your service.” As ever at these times of awkward gratitude, something momentarily flickered in Wynscell’s hard eyes leaving Thecgeot wondering anew at the unplumbed depths of his aide.

“No thanks are necessary, sir, though they are appreciated.” She allowed a bitter smile to grace her features. “Now if only your peers would recognize my service in similar fashion.”

Thecgeot grimaced knowing she meant the lewd rumors pertaining to their relationship. “So long as I’m at it,” he said, “I suppose I should apologize for them, since Vader knows they never will.”

Wynscell shook her head. “Appreciated but unnecessary, sir. I’m no Admiral Daala, looking to blame my own failures on conveniently placed chauvinism. Vader knows I’ve failed you often enough for them to wonder why you keep me.”

Thecgeot allowed his voice to harden. “Welsing’s failure was his own, do you hear me? If anyone will share blame, then it must be myself for assigning him to you.”

“With all due respect, you’re wrong, sir,” replied the young woman brazenly disregarding her station in order to speak her mind. It was among the very reasons the governor retained her services. “You’re too quick to take blame for yourself and credit success to others. It radiates weakness where there is none. It’s inexpedient.”

It was an old argument of theirs, one Thecgeot usually relished and indulged in. This time, however, he was not in the mood. “You forget, Wynscell, I served under the Emperor,” he said more harshly than he intended, jabbing a forefinger at his aide for emphasis. “And Vader, and Isard, and the Warlords. I’ve seen strength for the cloying, rotting seduction it is. If strength is being deaf, dumb, and blind like they were, then I’ll gladly take weakness. What good is the greater good if there are none left to know it? ”

He snapped at her further, but his initial eloquence quickly became inarticulate. Wynscell merely listened quietly, as he knew she would. When he finished, fists clenched with pent anger he had not realized he held, she picked up the datapad she had set down during his rant and began reading again. “And that,” she said simply, “is why you are strong.”

They were quiet for the rest of the way. Docking was an interminable nuisance, not in and of itself, but because the ritual attached to the arrival of important personages. Procedure had to be followed. Stormtroopers and crewmen had to be pulled away from whatever actually useful role they were engaged in so as to stand stiffly at attention, backs aching and flesh probably shivering in the chilly hangar. Worse, to Thecgeot’s mind at least, there were doubtless some idiots among them actually inspired to pride by the spectacle. He loved them for their fervor even as he hated them for their gullibility. Mostly he envied their naivety.

An overeager young captain, his age and demeanor sure signs he had never commanded the Star Destroyer in actual battle, welcomed them aboard his ship, the Vitupur, with his enthusiasm barely contained behind the stiff formality required. His second-in-command thankfully was a dour-faced man in his late forties, probably a junior officer at the time of Endor, whose bearing reeked of experience gained in the long hard days of the Empire’s fragmentation.

Shenti, the unproved captain, who on closer examination was suspiciously Fondorian, offered Thecgeot and Wynscell a tour of the vessel before the other officials arrived. They politely refused, neither being desirous of listening to a captain who held his commission only because political convenience fawn over the Kuat Drive Yards warship he disgraced with command. His second-in-command’s dutifully glazed but appreciative eyes implied whole-hearted agreement with the governor and his aide. Thecgeot almost wept inside. This was what remained of his beloved New Order.

Finally convinced his guests were disinclined to acquiesce, Shenti, crestfallen, escorted them to the warship’s main conference room. Please make yourselves comfortable, was his parting request. The others would arrive within the hour, which they did.

First to arrive was Aroch Wettigin, a hulking figure whose considerable brawn now languished beneath layers of fat. Successor to a deposed Moff in what was now New Republic space, although in exile, he remained formidable, having used his plentiful wealth to build anew his powerbase. Kurt Bendigno followed, the small Rendili man being the closest thing to an opposition leader in that he personally detested Lord Farganio Celdine, formerly of Alsakan, and the politically savvy Moff Zemyon Vlasvic, both of whom followed. Generals Aymar Gersatz and Doriyn Kierkenaj, and Admiral Yuma Dunangimbi finished the fell gathering.

Preliminary niceties complete, Raynar Thecgeot stood to address them. Conversation between the different parties and their aides ceased as they all fixed their gazes upon the tired governor. “Gentlemen, my friends, no, my brothers.” He paused to let his emphasis on that last word register with them. “As you know, Bastion has formally and officially made peace with the New Republic. About two years ago the Pellaeon-Gavrisom Treaty was ratified by both Bastion and Coruscant. In doing so the New Republic recognized Admiral Pellaeon’s government as the legitimate heir to the Empire.”

Thecgeot continued explaining not for them, for they knew it already, but for the sake of the holocams recording their furtive meet, for the sake of posterity. By accepting Bastion’s legitimacy, Coruscant had condemned the rest of the Remnant to illegality, branding them violators of a treaty of which only Coruscant and Bastion were party. However, this was the Imperial Domnion of Eskhar, the last of the Empire in the Inner Rim. Three hundred billion Imperials forgotten but not forgiven. And now, because they were not forgiven, no longer were they forgotten. No ill will was held toward Bastion. They, too, were the New Order. But the New Republic’s continued aggression could no longer be borne.

“Gentlemen,” said Thecgeot somberly, “there is no point dancing around the issue. GeSad is in agreement. The Imperial Dominion of Eskhar must also terminate its war with the New Republic. Now the question is how to do this.”

Lord Celdine’s scoff ended the awkward silence that followed. When the others looked to him expectantly, he explained with his notorious cynicism, a displeasing facet of his character that frequently was, to the Galaxy’s great discredit, unerringly accurate. “Certainly that’s desirable, Governor, but you, sir, are no Pellaeon. None of us are. We can’t just send a missive to Coruscant apologizing nicely and asking if they’ll please take their troops home. Look at us from their eyes. We’re war criminals. You remember how they dealt with Bevel Lemelisk. And don’t forget Grand Admiral Teshik.”

Bendigno pensively stroked his copious black whiskers as was his wont, his secretive eyes darting between Celdine and Vlasvic to see if the detested latter agreed with the despised former. “By that argument, Celdine, we’ve no choice but to keep sending our soldiers to be slaughtered until the New Republic takes Eskhar itself and drags us away to be shot. Speaking for ESCO, I don’t see my Directors consenting to surrender either.”

General Gersatz stirred at that notion, leaning forward on one arm, medals glinting and clinking together. “I won’t have my men keep dying,” he declared darkly. “Not for the likes of you, politicians. You cowards can see how long you last if Army Command orders our troops to surrender.”

“Perhaps the good High General should be reminded his men as he possessively calls them are Imperial soldiers, and as such belong to the state, not himself,” suggested Celdine icily, deliberately addressing Thecgeot.

“Perhaps the Lord should be reminded that my men are the ones keeping his estates and finances from being lost to the New Republic.”

“If they were doing so, then we wouldn’t be having this conference, would we?”

“You bastard, they’re dying by the thousands out there and you have the gall to say that!”

“I say what I see, Gersatz, and you needn’t like it if you don’t wish. I would, however, suggest an acceptance of facts. Our military, of which you are indeed part, but not, mind you, sole commander, is failing. For example, our glorious Stormtrooper Corps, represented by Kierkenaj here, is faring worse than they would have us believe. Would a bit of honesty be amiss amongst friends?” Calculated affront lay in Celdine’s eschewing of their military titles.

General Kierkenaj, a short wiry man of Bestine extraction and senior commander of Stormtrooper Command, folded his arms and looked coldly upon Celdine, but did not reply. He, too, Thecgeot knew, was a calculating man, as well as possessed of composure able to disconcert a gundark. The insult to his Corps was doubtless being filed away in some crevice of his exquisite memory, stored until time came for reciprocity.

Finally, exasperated beyond endurance, Moff Wettigin slammed his fist on the conference table, reminding with the resultant crash any of the gathering who had forgotten his hidden muscle. “Silence, both of you,” the Finance Minister rumbled, eyes glimmering with the force of will that had allowed him to usurp the power of most other ministries. “This isn’t why we’re here. We are each here representing each facet of government, so at least make pretense of dignity. If not for your own sakes, then for those with whose voice you speak.”

Celdine fell silent, always obedient to those who met his queer standard of nobility, while Gersatz, anger radiating outward in virulent waves, trailed off. Bendigno smiled a private smile, doubtless relishing the inferiority his rival had accepted. Vlasvic sighed almost imperceptibly, and Kierkenaj leaned back in his chair. Dunangimbi looked thoughtful. The military aides stayed dutifully blank-faced while their civilian counterparts exchanged glances. With a polite nod, Wittigen returned primacy to Thecgeot.

“Thank you, Finance Minister,” said Thecgeot bowing slightly. Clasping his hands behind his back and clearing his throat, he began again. “What we need are ideas, not accusations. As you have just demonstrated, ours is a fractured regime, no matter how solid it appears to our foes. We need consensus.”

Consensus, however, remained elusive. Words were spoken, tempers again flared. Eventually, it was Vlasvic who’s proposition garnered attention. “Actually,” he said hesitantly, “Admiral Dunangimbi is correct. I do have...contacts in the New Republic.”

Wittigen instantly fixed him with a piercing stare. “The truth now, Vlasvic. No lies. What proposal did you give them?” When Vlasvic remained reluctant, Wittigen stood up, approached the other man and seized him by the tunic. “Talk, damn you!” he growled shaking the unfortunate Vlasvic.

Vlasvic’s aides made as if to stop the Finance Minister, but a curt hand signal from Kierkenaj sent his own men to forestall them. The room fell silent.

Vlasvic, visibly pale, glanced around for help, of which none forth came. “They can arrange a meeting with a New Republic representative, but they have a price.”

“What price?” Thecgeot demanded quietly.