Time is running out

Bertoff Hissa looked at a map of the South Supersector. Even with all the information displayed with flags and numbers, there were so many planets that he had to look at the map in galactic view in order to see how much territory he had taken grip of before their fleets and the armies were overextended.

Ten percent, only ten percent of Degurechaff's territory was under his control and he had reached the point of overextension. It had gotten to the point where if he tried to occupy more planets, the defensive line would weaken and Degurechaff's fleets could start appearing in the rearline, destroying the invasion fleets left behind.

His strategy was simple, but as simple as his strategy was, it was rooted in the one hard lesson learned from the war with the Rebel Alliance. If you cannot control the hyperspace routes, you are set to fail a defensive war. When the enemy has the initiative, they can decide where to battle and when, and they can localize all their resources in single campaigns as you overextend your fleet across the galaxy trying to protect every territory you hold.

Alternatively, if your enemy has a territory, you have the advantage if you can control the hyperspace routes.

The Interdictor class came into production ten years ago, but its numbers were too low to be a danger even to the Rebel Alliance. Still, in their limited numbers, the biggest successes against the Rebel Alliance in space battles always had been with Interdictors present. Reason being, they had the ability to nullify hyperspace travel. Truly a marvel of technological innovation.

Bertoff Hissa looked longingly at the glass on the hologram-projector table. The liquid was dark, with a semi-transparent interior. Since the Second Battle of Mon Cala his body had surrendered to this addiction. An addiction he fed even now that he had an Emperor to trust in, an Emperor that could take care of all matters, an Emperor that could take the fall in Hissa's place if the wrong path was chosen.

Perhaps his loyalty to the Emperor was not for any righteous reasons, but because it gave him the right to keep living, to avoid the need to take his own life after such failure. He had no friends, not since he was but a child in The Wastes. But it was better that way, friends in the Galactic Empire were a dangerous thing that at a moment's notice could mean a permanent end to your career. He had survived for so long, held his position for so long, due not to the aid of others but by the grit and sacrifices brought from his own will.

Then why was it, he thought, that all he could think of when he brought the sweet nectar to his lips, was how truly alone he was. How likely more than half the galaxy hated his writhing existence. How he was likely the reason the Empire had nearly completely collapsed before this new Emperor had arrived to save it from the brink of destruction.

He raised the glass and looked up at its contents.

People believed him a monster, a person with no heart, and he indeed looked like a devilish creature. But he was still a person like anyone else. He grew like this in order to survive. Now, however, it would be the reason for his demise.

He took a long sip of his drink before recentering his attention on the hologram before him.

Degurechaff's strategy seemed to be to attack the defensive line the second they had focused their fleets on a single entity. Thankfully Imperial Intelligence had confirmed that the Acclamator SSD Vader's Wrath wouldn't be present in battle as it needed heavy repairs. The less Super Star Destroyers the enemy had the better.

He looked at the flags. Even at the rate that Degurechaff had been destroying the Empire's land forces, Hissa was sure that he would maintain the naval numerical advantage throughout this war. No, this gradual erosion of the Core's troops wasn't the cause for the sweat to run down his brow. Rather the slow but deadly ticking of the clock that soon would say that the Core no longer had the resources to feed its own industries.

Of course, the Imperial Government wouldn't stay quiet and twiddle its thumbs waiting for the collapse to happen. Expecting a long campaign, the Emperor set forth rapid economic reforms to scrounge, scavenge, and recycle every single piece of material as minutely useful as possible. Thousands of civilian spaceships were currently mining the asteroids in the Core for resources, while the local governments were pulling out all stops to produce as many resources as possible. The Emperor was an intelligent being, or so Hissa believed. The Emperor headed the council of his advisors, proposed his own ideas, and backed away from ideas if during the debate those ideas were found to be lacking.

A man that adapted.

A man that was charismatic.

A man that was forgiving.

Yet, as kind as he was, doubt still crept up in the back of the Emperor's mind. Every day since the war had started, he had inquired among his staff whether the Empire had indeed blown up Thyferra or whether they had made any further progress in investigating whoever might have done it.

Hissa lowered his gaze from his drink and glanced at the map. Thyferra was now within the territory controlled by the First Galactic Empire, and a joint investigation by the ISB and Imperial Intelligence was currently underway on the ruined planet, aiming to uncover what had happened.

Or perhaps they were covering up the traces of a crime that no one was willing to admit.

Hissa suspected that Isard might have been responsible. During the collapse of the Moff Council, he had lost contact with one of his ships, the Eye of Palpatine—a vessel resembling an asteroid, with the capacity to eradicate all life on an entire planet in mere minutes. It was the perfect weapon to make Thyferra vanish from the galaxy with a single blow, sparking a war between the First Galactic Empire and the newly formed "Second" Galactic Empire.

Hissa twirled the glass in his hands before taking another sip.

Isard was among the very few individuals with the capacity to not only know that the weapon existed, but also to have the ability to take control of it in the middle of the chaos.

On the subject of chaos, he looked up at the map again. Thousands of traitorous Moffs occupied the Mid and Outer Rims, serving as a buffer zone between the New Republic and the Empire—though they posed their own unique challenges.

He had catalogued each "warlord" on their level of threat as well as their potential for rehabilitation. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that if the Core demonstrated its strength, many of the warlords would likely rejoin the Empire.

With a relatively low threat level, the "Type 4" warlords resembled decentralized remnants of the First Galactic Empire. Cut off from communication, they had declared independence as a means of survival. Examples of this category include Gideon, the Warlord of Mandalore, who currently commanded Beskar-equipped Stormtroopers. He was engaged in battles against both the Third Mandalorian Empire and the New Republic. Currently holding the title of Mand'alor, he commanded the loyalty of approximately forty percent of the planets in the Mandalore system. Another example of a "Type 4" warlord was Bin Essada, who ruled a territory that included the infamous planet of Mimban. His most notable characteristic was the fact that he was in command of the most veteran forces in the galaxy—the best Stormtroopers, Imperial soldiers, and Naval troops. He was currently engaged in conflict with the New Republic.

The "Type 3" warlords were those who had not entirely abandoned their Imperial identity but were significantly more belligerent toward the Central Government than the "Type 4" warlords. They could potentially be brought under the Central Government's control through reconciliation efforts—or by bribing them into submission. A notable example was Grand Moff Ardus Kaine and his Pentastar Alignment, an isolationist territory currently engaged in negotiations with the Central Government to secure trade agreements.

As humiliating as it was to negotiate with these warlords, traitors to the Empire, the Emperor said that politics should be taken inside the realistic take of the situation around them. This "Realistic Politics" as the Emperor called it, was an attempt to not radicalize the Type 4 and 3 warlords that could be reunited peacefully sooner or later, and in the meantime could still be a source of trade for the First Galactic Empire.

Then, there were the "type 2" warlords. Open traitors who had broken away from the Empire and were subsequently declared enemies by the Emperor. These were typically small territories, often too remote to pose a significant concern. Since they fell within the New Republic's potential sphere of expansion, conquering them was not a priority. Yet among these traitors there were those that were considered to be a threat to the Imperial Government. One example would be the Warlord Zsinj and the little empire he had created in the North of the Galaxy which was now near the border of the territory of Gideon. He clearly intended to establish an independent territory and had, so far, refrained from taking military action against other factions. While these small empires would likely fade over time, they still needed to be addressed.

Lastly, the "Type 1" warlords were traitors who posed an immediate threat to the Imperial Government—one that could lead to the extinction of both the Empire and the True Imperial ideology. Only two leaders and their loyal followers were considered such a threat.

The first was the self-declared Emperor and Grand Admiral Josef Grunger. He commanded a considerable fleet and had been conducting a campaign in the Mid-Rim. Grunger sought to gain control of Corellia's shipyards as a strategic move before launching an attack on Coruscant. The last two loyal Grand Admirals, Danetta Pitta and Afsheen Makati, are actively working to stop him.

Unfortunately, Grunger was not the only threat that was approaching Corellia. The traitorous Grand Admiral Octavian Grant sided with the New Republic in exchange for a pardon for his numerous crimes. Rumors suggested that the New Republic bribed him with an entire planet to secure his allegiance against the Empire. Grant now fought for them, clinging to the hope that his betrayal would still somehow lead to a peaceful future after the war.

Soon in Corellia there would be a three-sided battle between Four Grand Admirals.

The other "Type 1" warlord was the infamous Tanya Degurechaff, daughter of Lord Vader.

Hissa's personal mistake.

He lifted the glass again, the dark drink lingering on his tongue as his thoughts wandered to her. How if he had managed things differently he may have helped the situation. How if he had put more effort into reconciliation she might be fighting for the Emperor instead of contributing to this… galactic catastrophe.

This shattered empire.

Degurechaff's so-called "revolution" was beginning to set in through the regions where the holonet had a presence. Red banners, flags and brassards became a common thing to wear by the poorer population. In Coruscant, sudden violent revolts were happening. One morning a CEO died in his own home, burned alive. Another evening an entire noble family was reduced to a set of reeking puddles of red in their own rooms.

Degurechaff's words promised a better future, along with an enemy to point the public's vengeful eyes upon. She didn't even point toward the Central Government as the threat, but rather the rich and the elites.

To forge an identity that could endure with the ideals of the Empire, she had threatened the galaxy with a revolution of the poor.

Hissa wasn't particularly worried, some revolts here and there, nothing the Empire hadn't snuffed out before. But within her territory was different. He had heard that the first attempts to land on the planets controlled by her forces had been a complete disaster, with entire stormtrooper legions reduced to cinders under the fire of thousands upon thousands of blasters.

The enemy's numerical superiority made it very difficult to land in the standard locations the Imperial Doctrine stated.

Soon, the analysis of enemy defenses would reach his data-pad, and reports of the failed offensives would become part of his daily routine. He knew he had to learn from these mistakes—each dead soldier could bring him closer to finding a way to conquer these planets with fewer casualties.

As dire as the strategic situation of the First Galactic Empire seemed, it was far worse.

Currently there are millions of soldiers on Kashyyyk, waiting for an evacuation that so far is logistically impossible. These soldiers came from the Core worlds… and for that reason the Core worlds were having "demonstrations." The motto, "Bring our boys back," had become so common to hear that Hissa had begun to clench his fists as a knot would twist in his chest whenever he heard anyone say those blasted words.

He wished he could recover these troops. He wished he could save his soldiers on Kashyyyk, but unfortunately, it wasn't a viable option. The Empire did not have enough spaceships to field such an evacuation, much less with the incoming battle of Corellia and the war against Degurechaff's Second Galactic Empire.

In these dark moments, even the return of an Emperor hadn't been enough to lift the morale of most of the troops. Hissa gazed at Coruscant on the holo-map, where the Coruscant Defense fleet continuously protected it, in cooperation with two task forces. Starting evacuation operations on Kashyyyk would leave the capital unprotected, but it would bring the soldiers back home.

He finished the contents of his glass, the white light around him refracting off it to create a beautiful glow, despite its simplicity. Hissa let out a sigh, raising one arm to shield his eyes from the light as he moved the glass into it with the other. Even something as unimportant as glass could have its moment of glory, but he found himself in a shadowed pit where only the Emperor could look upon him favorably.

It wasn't as if anyone would dare to attack Coruscant. Hissa believed he could convince the Emperor to save the soldiers on Kashyyyk. He wanted to save them, but more than that, he longed to feel something other than the blaring hatred from everyone around him.

Hissa brought the glass back down, turned away from the lights, and brought his chin to his chest, tightly shutting his eyes. Even if he didn't show it, even if he appeared to be evil, he was still a person. He gritted his jagged teeth. What the people thought of him affected him more deeply than any accursed thought he could have of himself.

Hissa reached back towards the bottle and began to refill his glass, a dry laugh escaping his throat.

"Surely, the Emperor will heed my advice. Perhaps… there is a dream that can be made into a reality."

Hissa held the glass up once again, breathing in deeply as he steeled his eyes upon it with resolve.

"Bring the boys back."

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Isard stepped through the dark corridors of the Super Star Destroyer Lusankya, the secret weapon known only to her and those who worked within it. She felt a hint of frustration, but overall, she was rather content.

Her frustration was drawn from things over which she had limited control, such as the galactic economy. If the Emperor failed to resolve this issue in time, most of her plans would be ruined, and that would draw the sickle ever closer towards her neck. But for now she still had time, and she was supplying the Emperor with all the resources he needed to achieve that goal.

To her left stood the second-in-command of Imperial Intelligence, Maleri. A man who appeared young but had a promising future ahead of him. He had been a tool of Isard's since he was fourteen, faithfully following her through all her plans and contributing his fair share of work to the schemes that were slowly shaping the galaxy into the one Isard had dreamed of.

"The Operation is ready to begin. There have been a few setbacks, but we shall still remain on schedule."

Isard raised her right eyebrow to his subordinate words.

"A few setbacks?"

"The Inquisition is very efficient at identifying corruption, which has been… problematic for our operations. Nothing that will affect the operation on a larger scale. All the pieces are in place, and all obstacles have been removed. Degurechaff hasn't noticed a thing."

"I'm actually surprised," Isard said, glancing at her hands. "We also launched several distraction operations to make them search in the wrong places, yet they didn't even identify these. How?"

Isard already knew the answer, but she wanted to test her second-in-command. She always did, because the moment her subordinates showed incompetence, they no longer deserved to hold their positions. And most of the time, when you remove someone from a relevant role, they become resentful—and resentment often leads to betrayal. Therefore, failure to meet her expectations in the high ranks of Imperial Intelligence was punishable by death.

Once, when she executed one of her many second-in-command, her previous second-in-command had called her a "paranoid bitch." She laughed at him then. He saw her paranoia as a flaw, but it was the very trait that had allowed her to get so far in life. It was a trait that Emperor Palpatine had spoken quite highly of.

How could something be bad if it was something the Emperor believed to be good? These idiotic, incompetent people couldn't understand it, but only with the traits she possessed could a society like the Empire function.

The threat of death creates competition, competition creates improvement for those that survive, and those that survive will be not able to maintain their position if they grow lazy as the new generations begin to flood in and threaten their position. How could there be incompetence in a society where the thing that mattered most was the survival of the fittest?

Palpatine was a visionary, and the True Imperials knew it, following his ideology to the letter. But they didn't even know the full extent of his plans. Isard did. She had sacrificed so much for him, done so much for him, and she loved him. In a fair world, she would have been Empress after his death. But in a galaxy ruled by the fittest, there was no such thing as fairness, so she continued to follow Palpatine's plans. The heir he had crafted to take the throne six and a half months after his death. She followed his plan with every detail, leaving nothing to chance.

Yet, YET! The plan was not complete. She had to scheme more, prepare for the great revenge—the moment when the Emperor's wrath would descend upon this galaxy. She had to ensure the Core survived. For him. For the Emperor.

For Sheev Palpatine.

"The officers who noticed this feared her more than they feared a possible revolt," Maleri answered, interrupting Isard's thoughts.

"That is why she will fail—she's too kind. She's not paranoid. Tanya the Merciful, they call her. That mercy will be her undoing. The only good decision she's made recently was the creation of the Inquisition, and even that is nothing more than a cheap imitation of Imperial Intelligence. She's fallen so deeply into my trap that she no longer has the ability to see it—every decision she's made so far has been predicted and guided by me. She's just another pawn in the Emperor's game, and she will soon be swept from the board entirely."

Isard didn't notice Maleri furrowing his brow. At first glance, there seemed to be a contradiction in calling her too merciful after claiming the officers feared her punishment. Maleri tilted his head in agreement with Isard. Degurechaff was still clearly too merciful. Instead of creating a network of spies within her own territory and organization, she seemed to genuinely trust her officers, promising to punish only those who truly deserved it. Rather than using her own paranoia to her benefit, she had become blinded by the paranoia of her officers.

Tanya the Merciful she was, and her mercy would soon spell the end of her little "Second Galactic Empire." Maleri chuckled.

Thinking of the fruition of the combined efforts of Isard and himself brought a faint curl to the edges of Maleri's lips. He had been Second-in-Command for less than a year, yet he had already witnessed how all the small operations, schemes, and assassinations were slowly converging into a masterpiece. Those in the lower levels of Imperial Intelligence believed that the new Emperor was the pinnacle of Isard's plan, the culmination of her months-long efforts. But that was barely the beginning.

Thinking of the Emperor, Maleri remembered some concerns he had.

"Madame Director, if I may pose a question?" asked Maleri with a careful tone of voice, his young face was average, brown eyes and brown hair, the most noticeable thing was that he had freckles.

"Proceed," answered Isard, the rise of her eyebrow barely noticeable.

"How is August acting? The implanted memories were those prepared by the Emperor himself, but I've been investigating them on my own. The memories have worked well so far, but I fear he might start to notice gaps, especially for the six months since the Emperor's death. We only repeated the program to cover this period. Without any mention of the Emperor's death or the Empire's collapse, I worry he might detect inconsistencies in the memories that we didn't account for."

"The subject has been completing its role as Emperor wonderfully," Isard said, as if she was talking of a machine rather than a person with thoughts and feelings. "It believes it is in power and acts accordingly. The subject's ideas are innovative in their own way and it is capable of taming even those that at first had feared it. A replicate created to be the perfect Emperor, a puppet that will complete its role perfectly"

"So, he isn't showing any signs of doubt or paranoia? I believe his human nature, combined with his powers in the Force and this peculiar 'golden' magic, will eventually start to impact his personality. Of course, we can create the most perfect Emperor in a laboratory, but once released, it might become difficult to control. For that reason, I've compiled a list of behaviors and attitudes you should adopt when dealing with him to keep him in a favorable state."

Isard stopped walking and looked at Maleri who then came to a stop just ahead of her. A single thought crossed Isard's mind:

Did Maleri believe the Emperor's plan had flaws? Did he believe himself more intelligent than herself?

The Emperor's plan had no concern for what the second Emperor might become once released from the lab, as long as it fulfilled its purpose of maintaining the Empire long enough. Did this fool—this bastard—truly believe the Emperor's plan could be altered by an imbecile like him?

What had this fool done to even think the Emperor's plan might have flaws or shortcomings? What had he accomplished in his life compared to the Emperor's grand Accomplishments? With what audacity did he believe himself in any position to "correct" the Emperor's plan?

She didn't feel the burning rush of fury, nor the heat of anger that others so often spoke of. Instead, she felt a chilling emptiness, a coldness that had settled within her long ago. It was the same coldness she had always known, the kind that numbed the edges of every emotion, leaving nothing but a distant, frozen void in its place. The warmth others seemed to have, that spark of passion or empathy, was foreign to her, like something she'd never quite learned to grasp. They called her a psychopath, quick to label what they couldn't understand. But she had taken the test, the one that was supposed to reveal the truth. And whatever this coldness was, it wasn't a symptom of some mental affliction—it was simply... hers.

She drew a hidden knife from her clothing and drove it into Maleri's neck with surgical precision. He attempted to raise his arms in defense, but Isard held him firmly in place. Maleri's eyes widened, a mixture of fear and disbelief overtaking him. He couldn't understand why this was happening—he had served loyally, followed her through countless schemes, and sacrificed so much for her.

"Wh-?" cough. A dark maroon liquid bubbled out from Maleri's mouth as he tried to ask why Isard would do this. The liquid spilled down his tailored uniform onto the durasteel floor, forming a slick puddle at their feet.

"If you cannot do something as simple as blindly trusting HIS plan, then how can I trust you to follow MY plans? How can I trust your loyalty if you aren't loyal to HIS plan?"

Isard's question hung in the air, unanswered, as Maleri's body jerked in a brief, final struggle before he collapsed to the floor. The faint thud of his body reaching the floor echoed for a moment in the hall before the stillness settled in. Isard wiped the small knife clean on his uniform, the fabric darkening with the final traces of his life, before slipping it back into her own uniform with cold, methodical ease. Maleri's body remained sprawled on the floor, his form a lifeless shadow against the cold durasteel plating.

Her steps bounced around the hall of the Super Star Destroyer as she continued on her way.

After a few minutes, she arrived at her destination, where two Death Troopers stood guard by the door. "Clean up the mess Maleri created," she ordered. They moved without hesitation as she stepped inside. The room was large but unwelcoming, its walls lined with dark panels that seemed to absorb the sterile light. The faint hum of data streams and machinery filled the air.

She took her place at the broad central table, its surface smooth and cold. Holograms flickered to life, displaying information on her current operations. The streams of data cast a pale light across her sharp features. She reached for the data-pad embedded in the table, her movements calm and precise as she entered her passwords and pressed her finger to the scanner.

His plan cannot be changed, His plan is perfect, His plan has to be done no matter what and there was no place for alterations created by imbeciles that could not understand HIS will and HIS goals.

After gaining access to the data-pad, her eyes fell upon the name of the Operation she was about to unleash—the one that would dismantle the Second Galactic Empire. Even if it failed to deliver the final blow, she had devised enough contingencies to ensure their eventual collapse. Sooner or later, their downfall was inevitable.

"The Imperial Intelligence always wins, because we are HIS hand," Isard said, her voice cutting through the silence as she leaned back in her chair. Her nails, which had been digging into the armrests, left faint impressions in the material as she finally released her grip.

As her arms shifted, she caught sight of a dark speck of blood staining her sleeve. Her expression barely shifted as she wiped it with a fingertip and held it up to the light, inspecting it with cold curiosity.

"Now that I think about it," she murmured, her tone almost conversational, "I'll be needing a new second-in-command soon…"

She pressed the bloodied finger to her lips, a flicker of amusement in her eyes as she let her tongue dart out to clean the smear. "I wonder who will prove themselves worthy this time," she said, her words carrying an edge that promised no mercy.

Without a second thought about the body the drop had come from, Isard turned her attention back to the data pad. Her fingers moved with deliberate precision as she prepared to send out a message. A moment later, she activated the transmission, her voice calm and clipped as she issued a command:

"Begin Operation Black Death."

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ten operatives of the Anti-Terrorism Department entered the Judiciary Building on the planet Luia, one of many worlds under Degurechaff's control.

Clad in black uniforms, the team moved through the vast halls of the building, greeted by the grim sight of dead civilians, fallen local police, and lifeless judiciary workers scattered throughout the entrance. Following closely behind them, twenty additional operatives filed in.

These reinforcements, former field agents of the ISB, had been retrained as a specialized counter-terrorism unit, tasked with handling urban insurgencies with precision and efficiency.

The leading operatives carried shields, while those behind them were armed with compact carbines adapted for close-quarters combat.

As they moved deeper into the building, the scene grew increasingly gruesome. Members of the Inquisition lay dead on the floor as well, their bodies showing signs of a fierce struggle with the terrorists who had breached the facility. Each Inquisitor had been dispatched with precise shots to the heart and head.

The Anti-Terrorism Department operatives worked silently, clearing corners and securing rooms with practiced efficiency. They methodically searched the entire structure, hunting for the terrorists responsible for the attack.

"There is a survivor," one of the ATD operatives reported. The office quickly filled with three men, who cleared all the corners before the rest remained waiting in the corridor. The lights flickered, and the acrid smell of burned flesh permeated the space.

"He's a Captain-Inquisitor," another operative stated as he assisted the survivor to regain composure. Searching the man's clothing for identification, he swiftly found a plastic card that confirmed his identity.

"Captain-Inquisitor of the Anti-Corruption Office in the Judicial Coordination Bureau, Schug Lear."

The third operative in the room nodded and used his comms to request the evacuation of the wounded Inquisitor.

Over the next four hours, the entire building was thoroughly searched and secured, but the culprits were nowhere to be found. Of the fifty judges, more than a hundred lawyers, two hundred and three members of the Inquisition, and nearly five hundred workers, only one survived.

This was the largest non-military terrorist attack in the history of the Empire.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Colonel-Inquisitor of the Inquisition entered the hospital where Captain-Inquisitor Schug Lear was being treated. Schug had been awake for hours already, but had refused to speak to anyone. As the sole survivor of the terrorist attack, the hospital was being guarded by more than five hundred men from the Local Militarized Police, with five E-webs deployed inside the building for additional security.

Walking through the hospital corridors, the Colonel-Inquisitor observed the inadequate medical treatments being administered. Bandages, outdated medications, and sewing thread were being used to close wounds instead of bacta.

The Colonel-Inquisitor prided himself on being well-informed. He followed the news closely and understood the cause of this regression. Since the destruction of Thyferra and Grand Admiral Belisarius Draneir's subsequent order restricting bacta use exclusively for the Armed Forces, hospitals across the galaxy had been forced to improvise. Methods once taught as obsolete contingency measures were now being widely implemented.

The news constantly reported how hospitalization times had increased from mere hours to weeks. It was a disaster. Hospital facilities were overwhelmed, never designed to accommodate patients for extended recovery periods. As a result, the hospital corridors were lined with people being treated in both standard medical beds as well as improvised ones. The shortage of proper medical beds exacerbated the situation, as no one had anticipated the surge in long-term patients.

The destruction of Thyferra was catastrophic for any civilized world that depended entirely on bacta to treat the wounded. Yet, unexpectedly, the planets that still relied on traditional methods of medicine production became wealthier as a consequence. These previously impoverished worlds were now being transitioned into producing galactic-scale quantities of medicine for export across the supersector.

There was hope in this dark night, but the threat of an even longer and darker night loomed ahead.

The largest and deadliest terrorist attack in the Empire's history had struck the Judicial Building, and he had been tasked with discovering who was responsible and why.

He finally reached the room where Schug Lear was being treated. The two Inquisition soldiers saluted him, and with a simple gesture of his hand, he allowed them to rest. The soldiers then returned their hands to their carbines.

Everyone in the hospital was on edge. News of the terrorist attack spread rapidly, and rumors followed close behind. Soon, the fear took hold that if the terrorists were not caught soon, the hospital would become their next target, as it housed the only survivor of the attack.

The Colonel-Inquisitor took this possibility seriously, which was why he had turned the hospital into a military fortress. Yet, he could see the fear in the eyes of every soldier and policeman. The few images that local news outlets had managed to obtain and spread across the planet had clearly shown police and Inquisition soldiers dead, with not a single assailant's body to be found.

The Colonel gulped, feeling the nervous tension rise within him. At approximately 2000 hours, the terrorists had entered the building, and within an estimated hour, they had cleared the entire structure. No one had noticed anything until a civilian entered after seeing a dead body on the floor.

How could they have killed hundreds of men and women in so little time without anyone noticing? It honestly scared him.

The Colonel-Inquisitor opened the door and saw the Captain-Inquisitor staring at the ceiling. He had been saved from death because the blaster shot intended for his heart had been intercepted by his hand, though he then collapsed to the floor, unconscious—or so it was believed. This explained why he had survived.

However, that theory had a flaw.

It was confirmed by the forensic team of the Local Police that the terrorists first aimed for the heart, and once the person was down, they shot them again in the head to confirm the kill.

This process was repeated on all the casualties of the terrorist attack. Though some had been shot three or even four times, every single victim received a shot to the head to ensure the kill.

Why was this Inquisitor different?

The Colonel-Inquisitor took a chair from a simple table nearby and moved it next to the bed of the Inquisitor.

He was given the privilege of a room to himself because of the terrorist attack. The lights were on, and the windows had been covered with shutters so no one could try to kill him without entering the hospital.

"You are Mr. Schug, correct?" asked the Colonel.

The man nodded.

"Did you see who shot you?"

It was a direct question; the Colonel had no time to lose—every second counted, and the terrorists could attack again at any moment.

The man nodded again. "They wore all black, their faces covered."

"All black? Like the Local Militarized Police?" asked the Colonel.

"No, these men wore armor and helmets. Like the Stormtroopers, but different."

That last statement didn't sit well with the Colonel. For a moment, he thought of a particular uniform, but he quickly dismissed the idea. No, that couldn't be it. He pushed the thought aside and pulled out a small datapad from under his red gabardine, opening the Inquisition application. As soon as it loaded, he called up information on military organizations of the New Republic and sifted through images of known special forces uniforms that might match the description.

"Did they look like this?" the Colonel asked, showing Schug the datapad.

"No, the uniform was all black. I didn't notice any other coloring, and the helmet is wrong."

The Colonel scrolled through the images.

"This one?" he asked.

"No," Schug responded. This continued for a few minutes, the sweat on the Colonel's brow steadily increasing as time wore on. After exhausting the available images of known New Republic uniforms, the Colonel adjusted the collar of his uniform and manipulated the datapad to bring up information on uniforms within the Empire.

He knew it was crazy, but ever since he read the details of the terrorist attack, something had been nagging at him, a persistent ache in his head. Information was drilling through his brain, demanding to be understood.

No terrorist organization had ever achieved such a level of coordination and success in the history of the Empire. Only the Empire's Special Forces had come close to such precision, typically handling disorganized rebel bases.

He finally reached the part where his suspected terrorists were. He showed it to the Captain.

"Did they look like this?" he asked, presenting the armor of the Death Troopers.

"Yes."

The Colonel inhaled sharply. "Are you sure, Scheg? Are you absolutely certain?"

After a moment of contemplation, Scheg replied, "Yes, I'm sure."

The Colonel didn't know how to respond. He knew about these Troopers because, before becoming a Colonel, he had served in the ISB field forces. Most of the galaxy didn't even know they existed. He sighed, fearing that Imperial Intelligence might have infiltrated the Super Sector again after Degurechaff's purge.

"Colonel, what does this mean? Who are these forces?"

The Colonel placed a hand on Scheg's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Captain, but I cannot answer your question. Now, please tell me—why do you think they attacked the judiciary building?"

Scheg was taken aback by the sudden concern in the Colonel's eyes. "I— I was investigating a case of corruption. Thousands of blasters, uniforms, and land vehicles had disappeared. We suspected they were sold to pirates or smugglers, so we arrested all the officers. That was the day before the attack."

The Colonel nodded at the information. This might be worse than he had ever expected. But then another question assaulted him.

"...Captain, why do you think you survived?"

The Captain paused before responding. "I think they might have had a time limit to carry out the operation."

He continued, "They made strange sounds, like scrambled radio chatter, when speaking to one another. But I didn't need to understand what they were saying to realize they seemed to be in a hurry. When they shot me, I fell behind my desk, so it would have taken them at least ten seconds to reach me and shoot at my head…" The Captain's attempt to recall the moment was evident, but the fear in his eyes betrayed him, revealing how deeply the experience had affected him.

Was it just luck? Or had the Troopers been running out of time, as the Captain's theory suggested?

The Colonel frowned and stood up. He had to bring this information up the chain of command.