The TZ-15 shuttle descended through the cloud layer enveloping Etti IV.
The TZ-15 shuttle.
Designed to transport prisoners or particularly important members of the Zann Consortium, this class of vessel—despite its unassuming armament of only a pair of laser cannons—possessed defenses, both armor and deflector shields, on par with a Corellian corvette.
And now the ship was fulfilling its primary purpose: delivering to the planet, to one specific location, one of the organization's most vital figures—the man Tyber Zann had built it around.
Jerid Sykes stared out the viewport, watching the blanket of clouds slide past with detached indifference.
Jerid Sykes.
Once a decorated officer of the Republic Navy, blooded in hundreds of battles across the galaxy.
A veteran of the Clone Wars who had deserted the moment the New Order was proclaimed.
Not because he cherished democracy or saw Palpatine as a usurper who had simply overstayed his welcome in the Chancellor's chair.
Not because he adored the Jedi or opposed totalitarianism.
Quite the opposite.
Jerid had enthusiastically supported the consolidation and tightening of power in a single pair of hands.
The problem was whose hands those were—Palpatine's.
What Jerid could not stomach was the changing of signs in the hope that the contents inside would magically improve.
He was neither fanatic nor fool; his long life and military experience had taught him that Republic or Empire, nothing would truly change for the better.
The same people remained in power.
Only now they possessed far more authority and far fewer obstacles to imposing their will on others.
And not for the galaxy's sake or the Empire's greatness—causes worth joining a vast war machine for.
No, Jerid understood that the Jedi purges, the governmental reorganizations, the military reforms—everything was done solely to satisfy one man's personal desires.
Not the state's.
So he walked away.
And, it must be said, he had not regretted it.
No one in the Zann Consortium knew the circumstances under which Sykes had joined the organization.
No one except the man he was now on his way to see.
The shuttle pierced the cloud cover, emerging a scant two kilometers from the target atop a high mountain peak.
Jerid had been here thousands of times, yet he never ceased to admire the beauty of the place.
Everything was perfect—the breathtaking scenery, the meticulous yet technologically elegant architecture…
A near-masterpiece of modern art, created to indulge one man's personal whims.
Never forget that.
"Landing in two minutes, Admiral," announced a Defiler who had stepped out of the cockpit.
The TZ-15's layout was almost identical to an Imperial Lambda, but this starship was markedly superior.
"Understood, pilot," replied the commander of the Zann Consortium's combat wing. For him, not only the ships but the pilots themselves were the best of the best.
Jerid glanced at the sprawling complex bathed in the shadows of sunset, a complex the builders had dubbed the Imperial Palace.
The Imperial Palace on Etti IV in the Corporate Sector.
Though not all the external structures were not yet complete, what was visible was merely the tail of the comet.
The Emperor never left his most precious possessions in plain sight; he hid everything in places inaccessible to prying eyes.
So too was this palace carved deep into the mountain rather than perched upon its summit.
When the ship settled onto the landing platform and Sykes stepped beneath the vaulted ceilings of the residence, he brushed a few melting snowflakes from his tunic—carried in on a gust of wind.
The atmospheric shield could preserve oxygen for the inhabitants, but it could not keep out the elements.
Jerid navigated the palace depths without error, noting that a squad of Defilers followed at a respectful distance—honor guard, watch, escort, and bodyguards all in one.
Their role did not particularly concern him.
It was enough that he harbored no ill intent; otherwise those fighters would have happily disintegrated him.
His path ended before enormous gates—twenty meters tall—through which a Corellian corvette piloted by a first-year cadet could easily fly.
Grandeur, pomp, ego gratification.
What exactly was a visitor to the Emperor's throne room in this palace supposed to feel?
The massive doors slid open without a sound.
Warmth and the low murmur of a working environment washed over him at once.
If the Emperor had intended this space for gatherings, its half-kilometer sides meant for receiving guests, Tyber Zann had repurposed it entirely.
Hundreds of workstations, holoterminals, tactical displays, encrypted comm stations.
Hundreds—perhaps thousands—of operators who never paused their labors for a second, breaking concentration only to offer a respectful nod to the passing commander as he made his way toward the far end of the Zann Consortium's nerve center.
There, upon a tiered dais, stood the massive Imperial throne from which its occupant was meant to look down upon all who came for audience.
Now the throne was ringed by workstations and monitors, and the white-haired man seated in it studied annotations on a holographic galactic map.
Tyber Zann.
A crooked smirk played across the scarred left side of his face.
"Tell me something I don't already know, Jerid," the head of the Zann Consortium invited.
"The twenty-seventh convoy has gone dark," the combat-wing commander reported.
"So they've resumed the raids?" Zann narrowed his eyes.
"Yes and no," Jerid replied. "They decisively intercepted the convoy and its escort—that much is certain. But the odd part is that both ships and the beacons aboard them stopped transmitting almost the instant they registered an unscheduled reversion from hyperspace. The Inexorable that followed arrived in-system an hour and a half later. Contact with her was lost immediately as well."
"Meaning Pellaeon has decided to roll out," Zann's lips twisted into a lopsided grin, "his precious Venators with ion cannons against Consortium convoys."
"I reached the same conclusion," Jerid acknowledged.
"What word from the fifth convoy?" Zann asked.
"They are continuing on course," Sykes answered. "They've entered the central systems of the Karthakk sector. Final destination—presumably the Karthakk system itself."
"Where the system of the same name suddenly went silent and our agents on Maramere stopped delivering stygium?" Tyber smirked. "Pellaeon learned well at Thrawn's knee—he's seen through my plan." The consortium leader glanced at the transparisteel panel mounted to the right of his throne. "But clearly he still hasn't realized we know perfectly well they have a base there. Luring us into range of his pocket fleet of star cruisers won't work. Recall the ships. If we can't hit them at anchor, we're not sticking our heads into a rancor jaws. When the Dominion falls, Karthakk will surrender on its own. I'm certain Thrawn stashed plenty of interesting toys there. I'd rather not damage his treasury prematurely."
"As you wish." Jerid wasted no time; he raised his personal deck and issued the order. "The pursuers will leave the sector in two days—navigation hazards, after all."
"Yes, it's an interesting game," Tyber smiled broadly, glancing again at the transparisteel decoration of his workspace. "I expected it to be far simpler and duller. But Pellaeon hasn't disappointed."
"Pellaeon is only a figurehead," Jerid stated. "He gives orders. He is no Thrawn—he lacks the strategic gift. Every operation against us is the handiwork of his formation commanders. They are the real threat."
"Them included," Zann conceded. "Never underestimate Pellaeon. The latest convoy proves it—instead of throwing his rarities at us, he sent a Venator with an ion cannon. Given we haven't seen them since Sluis Van, it's safe to assume that 'superweapon' is being held in reserve."
"Hardly surprising when it can disable capital ships in a couple of shots," the admiral replied calmly.
"Indeed," Zann grinned again. "The Dominion is no 'Veiled Women's Society,' Jerid."
The Veiled Women's Society had operated in the Outer Rim during the final years of the Galactic Republic and into the Imperial era. Run by a Pirate Queen elected from a council of female captains and advisors, the Queen kept her identity secret behind an elaborate mask. When one queen died, another was chosen and the mask passed on, rendering the Queen effectively immortal in the eyes of the organization. The society maintained anonymity by preying almost exclusively on other criminal groups.
The year Tyber Zann returned from Kessel imprisonment and began rebuilding the Consortium, the third Pirate Queen (since the society's founding) attempted to crush the fledgling syndicate in its cradle.
It ended that same year in a battle near Ord Mandell.
The Pirate Queen was destroyed, her organization shattered, and what remained of her ships and forces surrendered to the Zann Consortium.
Some still served to this day—grateful, in their way.
When your brain has been rinsed so thoroughly you no longer remember your own name or past, what choice do you have as a Defiler?
It was that victory over the Veiled Women's Society that first opened recruitment of women into the Defiler ranks.
Consortium scientists learned much about female physiology while conducting brutal interrogations of captives in search of improved extraction techniques.
"How long will our puppets in the D'Astan sector last?" Zann inquired.
Jerid knew perfectly well the boss possessed complete intelligence on every territory the organization controlled.
But he wanted to speak with the admiral face to face.
One could almost call it weakness—the head of the Consortium felt lonely without his right hand and friend Urai Fen, who had vanished without a trace.
Knowing Chiss, Fen had almost certainly died rather than risk capture.
Jerid was one of the few senior officers who had known Zann before the man entered the Imperial Military Academy.
It had been through Jerid that Tyber arranged his first smuggling runs.
In the days of the Old Republic that had been far easier—no state ideology or patriotic fervor to interfere with profit.
Everyone earned as best they could.
That was why many had welcomed the Empire, expecting profound change—only to discover the same old processes hidden behind fresh paint.
"Another couple of months at most," the admiral judged. "Without our advisors and supplies they are nothing. The Dominion's active involvement is shortening the rebellion's lifespan."
"Well then," Zann concluded. "Pellaeon is doing exactly what I hoped. While he deals with the fires we lit, our agents inside the Dominion will prepare the ground for the killing blow. What about the Tamarin sector grouping?"
"Union with Tavira's forces never happened—Mon Calamari star cruisers destroyed the pirate base."
"Just as they did in the Thanium Worlds," Zann narrowed his eyes.
"Reminder: the Imperial Space rear grouping suffered the same fate at Mon Cal hands."
"A nice attempt by Pellaeon to pass off his operations in captured Mon Cal ships as renewed Alliance and New Republic activity," Zann chuckled. "Our representatives have already approached the Thanium Worlds government with protection offers."
"They'll demand we counterstrike the Alliance," Jerid observed.
"That's the idea," Zann grinned. "Lord Bonteri will make the Alliance an offer they can't refuse. That puppet will earn every credit we invested in the Tion Hegemony. Soon every sector there will be ours—courtesy of the Rebels."
"We should intensify efforts to pit the Dominion against the eastern grouping," Sykes suggested.
"They're already doing it," Zann smirked. "Why do you think the twenty-seventh convoy was taken? They need a fire ship to clear the minefield."
The admiral paused a moment.
"Low speed but superb protection and survivability," he mused. "You deliberately placed Inexorables in the second escort echelon so they could seize one for infiltration."
"Nothing complicated about it, yet Pellaeon never would have thought of it without my gentle nudging," Tyber Zann smiled triumphantly.
"But they still found our base on Smarck," Jerid reminded him, "and gutted it."
"That's what our observers told you?" Zann clarified.
"Yes," the admiral confirmed. "Dominion reconnaissance teams are still waiting for our reaction on Smarck, unaware the local population is our eyes and ears."
"Clones, clones, clones," Tyber said with a smile. "While Pellaeon believes Black Sun lost its cloning cylinders and desperately wants them to rebuild his armed forces, we'll wait until he links them to the ones he already has. Then we take everything."
"Assuming they only have the cylinders," the admiral cautioned.
"They most certainly do," the consortium leader assured him with a smirk. "Otherwise Thrawn wouldn't have spent the last six months frantically evacuating ysalamiri from Myrkr. How are things in the Chiloon Rift?"
"Moff Harsh is raging and wants to counterattack Dominion forces in the Bosph sector," Jerid reported.
"If he becomes a problem—remove him," Zann warned. "I don't need a hysterical greedy psychopath overseeing our rear shipyards. Building ships is hard enough without one. Especially since we'll soon strike the Dominion's northern territories and end this campaign quickly. Thrawn's cozy fortress will be entirely ours."
"I'll tell him to stop throwing tantrums," Jerid promised. "But…"
"But?" Zann raised an eyebrow.
"Some of our fighters are grumbling that we're letting the enemy destroy our bases and seize assets without striking back," Sykes said. "Especially since the beacons on the Smarck trophies still haven't been discovered. There are commanders unhappy we essentially handed the enemy fine ships instead of using them ourselves. We don't have that many capital ships in the combat wing even now."
"Let them shut up," Zann ordered. "I'm not interested in their whining. If they don't obey—space them. I will not allow a decade of my work to be ruined by gizka-tempered hysterics."
"It will be done," Jerid agreed meekly, making a note on his datapad.
Trust memory, but always keep records.
"As soon as everything is ready we will deliver a strike of retribution—no petty responses," Tyber declared. "I'm not interested in tit-for-tat with Pellaeon; that would only distract him from his eastern offensive. We strike only when he has bled himself dry in the east and cleared the path for us."
"As you wish," Jerid replied diplomatically.
"Right now I'm far more interested in what's happening in the Allied Tion," Zann admitted. "It seems our puppet has been exposed. Mi-Ha reports fifty-one legions of stormtroopers have arrived in-sector."
"Too many for us to simply seize control," Jerid frowned. "That wasn't supposed to happen."
"But it did," Zann stated. "Very well—we fall back to the contingency. We'll sick the Alliance on them through Bonteri. One more burning sector more or less makes no difference. I need their industry and resources, not the trash they play at independence with. Too much has been invested to stall or retreat now. Let them bleed each other while we finish off the competition. Then we reach out and take what's ours. Thrawn is dead, and the rest of the warlords and politicians are no match for you or me, Jerid."
Tyber Zann cast a triumphant eyes on the transparisteel panel.
"My old enemy gave me plenty of trouble and spoiled more than a few plans," he said. "Pity you couldn't outwit death itself. It would have been interesting to face you on an actual battlefield now that I'm wiser, stronger, and far more farsighted…"
An awkward silence followed, during which Sykes carefully avoided looking at the transparisteel panel.
He was on Zann's side because at least the man was honest about his ambitions.
But the theatrics…
"Carry on, Jerid," Tyber ordered. "Prepare the fleet for strikes on the Korva and Mieru'kar sectors. Soon Pellaeon will make his move and be forced to commit to war in the east. And we will be ready to hit where they least expect it."