Space, Spice, Spies

[Sean Piett]

Miltin Takel; alcoholic, womanizer, spicehead, and for a few more parsecs, Grand Admiral. If he was even still alive. He was the embodiment of the Imperial Dream; a street urchin from the spice-producing Gargon who rose to the very top of the naval dogpile. Smart. His temples and handlebar moustache were touched by gray, his eyes and stomach sunken- he was gaunt and thin as a Hapan mist from a truly dedicated glitterstim addiction.

The man was at Endor, and it was anyone's guess if he'd even survived the chaos. Even with the Rebels driven off, the Emperor was dead, Vader; dead, and the Deathstar a ruin. A phyrric victory if there ever was one. Sean Piett was sprawled in an uncomfortable uniform in an even more uncomfortable chair. He was on the bridge of Takel's flagship Scarborough, orbitting Mandalore. Toying there with his unfamiliar rank plates, loose and slouched, he mourned. Executor drove into the Deathstar like a vibro-knife, and his father, the esteemed Admiral Piett, had surely gone with it. The Empire was decaying, fast.


Somewhere on the other side of the planet, Grand Admiral Josef Grunger was putting down the last throes of the Mandalorian revolt that had started some week before the Battle of Endor. Piett had returned to the system a bare hour ago, after chasing pirates, Nagai marauders, and the Madalorian flagship all around the quadrant. Grunger could probably make use of Scarborough, but instead Piett was slipping the Victory-Class Star Destroyer into orbit, and sending some of his own orders to ships in Grunger's battle.

"Admiral, we're in position, sir."

Piett looked up. In these past month's he'd not gotten used to the rank. Beyond that, he wasn't used to the military. He let his captain make most of the technical decisions, but watched and learned. He was getting a hang for the position of the turbolasers, the speed of his ships, the capabilities of others'. Sunk in the chair, he replied, "Open up on the city. Destroy everything. Dispatch the TIE bombers, and TIES 12-36. Bombers 4-8 with escort to the hovertrain, the rest with escort to the docks. Have the rest of the TIES watch the skyways and roads. I don't want anything with more than four passengers escaping."

The captain blinked, then saluted. "Sir."

[Sean Piett]

The TIES hummed in, eyeballs in polygon frames, blinking out neon green lasers in pairs. Unlucky skycars were batted out of the sky while those spared scattered like shrapnel from an explosion. Here, a landspeeder is cracked in two from a brilliant bolt of energy; here, a hovertrain is knocked off of its unsteady mooring in a gout of fire.

Piett had bothered to walk up to the viewport, though he could have watched it on a moniter from his chair. Devastation, like a sunrise, was better watched in person. He didn't adjust any of his orders- he wasn't confidant enough in his knowledge to micromanage to that level, yet. Standing there, his figure was illuminated by the atmosphere's sheen, and by the coarsing turbolasers and distant explosions. He had a pale, silvery mop of hair, a carefully shaped and lithe frame. Standing uncomfortable in his rough, olive-drab uniform, most of his head in a tight, small-brimmed military hat, he looked quite unmenacing. There was a happiness in him, though, as he remarked at the chaos below.

"Admiral!" an ensign interrupted his observation, "Grand Admiral Grunger is on the comm, sir."

Piett nodded, his face still intent on the transparasteel. Then, spinning on his heel, he strided to a viewscreen and leaned in at it, thumbing up the angry face of the Grand Admiral. The man was stern, bird-like, his stretching neck framed by gold epaullets and white cloth. "Piett! How dare you summon away half my fleet in the middle of a battle? I lost a cruiser and half a squad for it! Now they're firing on the planet itself. Thousands of civilians are dying! There's no way we can negotiate now, and half their fleet is still fighting-fit. Send those VSDs back, or I'll have you keel-hauled!"

There was a calm anger in Piett's voice as he replied, "I am acting proxy to Grand Admiral Takel by order of the Emperor, and until he returns, I'm within my rights to command his ships as I will." He grew more passionate. "You're fighting like a damn rebel over there! Negotiate? These Mandalorians might not be part of the Alliance, but treason is treason without quarter. Now I've left you almost the entire stock of Takel's fleet, taken a bare three Victories, but if you don't dispatch the rest of the Mandalorians today I'll take Takel's fleet and drive you back to your own district."

"Dammit, you're not your father, Piett. You're only Admiral by brevet, you couldn't lock in hyperspace coordiantes withough a small army of Ungunauts to help you! Now leave the soldiering to men, you da-."

Piett ended the audience and began to move away when an ensign moved up and whispered to him. "Admiral, we have a comm from one of our ships on the other side."

Piett nodded. "Queue it up."

"Sir, Captain of the Horace here. A man in tracking just picked up something. A shuttle just entered the system, broadcasting itself as Grand Admiral Takel. It should reach Grunger's ships before ours, sir."

"Grand Admiral Grunger," Piett corrected. "Jam his frequency and send your ship's Interceptors. Bring him here, he will certainly want to be on the bridge of his flagship."

"Sir."

Piett moved back to the viewport and clasped his hands behind him. The new Interceptors were faster than anything Grunger had, but if the man reached Grunger first, Piett would quickly lose all power. He thought lightly back to what had brought him here.

[Sean Piett]

Some months before, in the IMPERIAL PALACE. . .

I'm naked and these stone floors are cold as Hoth. From this room, vast as it is, the Galaxy is run.. I feel like Dorothy in Oz. The Cowardly Lion is just to my left, a Grand Admiral shaking and breathing heavily and trying to cover himself. He returns my condescending glance with a a bitter scowl. Half a dozen crimson guards usher us through the room, towards the great metal throne. They're spattered along the walls, too, like red ants guarding their leige. These are Sovereign Protectors. I've probably even helped to train a few.

I think, in another life, I would like to be one.

We're about twenty yards away when the guards stop us, and the throne slowly turns on its base. I've seen the Emperor before, some years ago when Vader chose my father to captain the Devastator, and a dozen other times on account of my status as a Prophet. He's like old fruit, though, and he hasn't stopped rotting. I'm on my knees waiting for a centipede to burst out of some wrinkled fold when he speaks.

"Rise, Grand Admiral. Prophet."

We do, but I keep my head cowed. Respect, you know.

"Grand Admiral Takel will be joining me at a space station in the outer rim. Lord Prophet, you will be his proxy until I return him to his fleet. I grant you the brevet title of Admiral. Grand Admiral Grunger, there are rumors of revolt on the planet Mandalore. You will bring your fleet and help our new Admiral deal with the problem, and advise him. You will both see these as rewards."

I immediately murmur a thankyou, and then glance leftways. I can see a dozen comments bubbling to Grunger's mouth, demanding to know why a Prophet with little military experience.. but he cuts off these thoughts and thanks the Emperor as well, just a shade too late to sound genuine. I have some questions of my own.

"Admiral, stop at Gargon and collect your forces. It would be prudent to meet with Moff Luxado, as well. That is all. Leave." His throne spins around slowly to face away.

Grunger twists and begins to hastily walk, though his speed is checked by the guards. I, however, linger a second.

"Master," I address, "I had a vision this last night."

"Report your visions to Kadann."

"It concerned you and my father. I beleive you are both in danger," I venture. I can feel the royal guards around me seethe anger. They continue to lead Grunger away. He is obviously more concerned with evacuating the room than hearing a prophesy. "A great arrowhead fell from space, and punctured a steel eye."

The Emperor says nothing, and facing away I can only see the high back of the throne. I have no doubt he knows exactly what it means. "Your father and I will soon be among the safest men in the galaxy. I would be much more concerned about your own fate."

I bow, and leave the room. I had better visit my other master. Hell, it's practically on the way.

[Sean Piett]

Space Station Scardia is exactly how it was when I left it, two years ago. It all happened here; my training, my education, my life. Half the walls are glass cases stuffed with Kadann's prizes; cruel looking weapons, Wookie rugs, ancient lightsabers and blasters, crystals and pottery dating to before the Sith War. The dwarf prophet has as vast a collection as the Royal Museum on Imperial Center.

I'm wearing my robe, a black hooded cloak spotted with brilliant white stars. Standard fare for a Prophet of the Dark Side. In my hand is a glass flute from Vortex, a beautiful green pipe that I surmise was given to some of the first human explorers there as a gift. The Cathedral of Winds was remarked for its beautiful music, and this small work could produce many of the same alien sounds.

High Prophet Jedgar, the thick, tall man outside Kadann's chambers, nods stiffly as I pass. Technically, the oaf is my superior, but I report only to Kadann, a privilege Jedgar begrudges me.

Inside is the dwarf, Supreme Prophet, Kadann the great.. a Jedi Knight, I've heard it whispered, who turned colors and made himself valuable to Palpatine before Order 66. He's covered in the same miraculous cloth I am, radiant and dark both, and his ugly face is shadowed by the hood. I bow, and offer him the glass I'm carrying, which he accepts greedily. The length at which he examines it betrays that he considers it a fine gift.

"Where did you find this?"

"Vortex itself. I went for the ceremony, and spoke with some of their elders. They offered it as a parting gift."

"You tortured them. You shredded their wings with the glass they had built." He quivers, and I can see the vision of it is filling him. I don't argue or explain myself.

"The Emperor has reassigned me, Master."

"You are still a Prophet."

"I had a vision. I told the Emperor."

"I know. He contacted me shortly after. I have had like visions, but he has not seen it prudent to act upon them."

"The entire Empire is at stake.."

"Sean, entire holocrons are filled with Prophecy that has never been met. Do not concern yourself over this, simply go on your way."

I can see he's lying. What he says runs perpendicular to all my training. But he knows that I know.

I bow.

"Master."

And I leave.

[Sean Piett]

Luxado is fat- huge like only Hutts and Moffs can get, a level of corpulence that makes rolling off a bed or chair a genuine threat. He's all smiles and small teeth under those massive, shaking jowls. When I enter the room, he sweats and strains to rise and lean over his desk, offering a hand. I shake it, and it swallows my own, but we sit and start to BS, and he's an okay bloke.

After some of the tutelary conversation, he breaks into: "Really, we hate to have a strong military presence here.. disturbs the populace. Can't say I'm unhappy you and Grand Admiral Grunger are here, though. We've got some sort of alien marauders pillaging some of the satellite worlds, pirates.. everywhere.. spice runners coming out from the woodwork, and I have to say the dissent on Mandalore is getting intimidating. They're scrappers and fighters every one, they are."

"Do they have much of a fleet?"

"Somehow," he returns, "To be honest I'm not sure where it's come from. A lot of it is just freigters tooled up with blasters and bombs, but they have a fair number of dreadnaughts and a good many of those bulbous, blistery things." I wonder, then, if they have Rebelion aid coming in.

"Is the Grand Admiral's flagship in system?"

"Yes, the Scarborough. It's a Victory, but don't think he hasn't tooled around with it. That monster can hold footing with any ship in the fleet.. get in atmosphere for a barrage, too, and no mistake."

He clearly hadn't seen my father's Executor, but I don't call him on the technicality.

"I had best get on the bridge, then. If you'll send me a Fleet manifest.."

"Oh! Here," he says, shuffling through a mass of papers. Primitive world, I think. "Computers just don't seem to do it justice," he says, and I quirk an eyebrow at him. Curious. But he continues shuffling, and produces a manilla folder. I guess the Moff has no concerns about leaving highly classified documents in piles all over his desk.

I stand and thank him, and begin thumbing through it on my way out. I reach the door when I have to turn around, and comment, "You've lost a lot of ships, Moff. Six ISDs? Ten VSDs? Force! Carracks and Dreadnaughts to clog a spacelane!"

He simply shrugs. "We haven't had a proper leader since Grand Admiral Takel left for that forest moon. Things have been rough, with terrorism and pirates and this threat of revolution."

I nod, but am still a little confused. I thank him again and head for my ship.

[Sean Piett]

Round ten and I'm dealer again. We've been at it all night, me and the bridge boys who aren't on duty. Mixing it up with the guys and getting a little dirty has been a welcome change from the pomp and elegance the Prophet's robe demands. Sure, technically I'm an Admiral, but it's a rank that'll never hold and I'm back to the old life in a matter of months.

We've been combing space for the last of these pirates, and never have I heard of a more well-equipped group of buccaneers. These guys aren't using freighters and junk, they've got military-level strike cruisers and gunboats, not to mention a few TIEs that make me scratch my head every time I see those boxy wings fly past the viewport, with a white skull-and-crossbones painted on.

Not to mention they're hitting every government convoy in the sector.

We've done a bang-up job, though, me and the Scarborough. I've got a cute little strike force here; the ISD Vanity, couple Carracks, couple support ships. I've lost a man here and there, but the truth is, those pirates are bleeding heavy. It hasn't been hard to predict them, they're all over every major shipment.. I wonder that the local fleet hasn't done much but lose. The records show nothing but losses against these amateurs.

Bleep, bleep

Sirens. Pirates. I curse. I throw my hand face down.

And I would've won, too.

[Sean Piett]

There are already two dozen TIEs screaming right at me when I'm to the viewport. Behind them is the most vast non-Imperial fleet I've ever seen assembled.

The twist is, every ship over there is Imperial-designed. Forgive me for being a little suspicious, but I'm looking right down the craggy gray noses of two ISDs pointed at me, a mint-condition Lancer, three battle-worn Carracks I'm sure I've run into before, out on the spacelanes, and a Dreadnaught I assume they had since before all this madness started.

"Bring the Lancers around! Get those TIEs out of my face! Unload our hanger, same with Vanity. Keep ours on the defensive around here, send out Green Wing to make passes on that Dreadnaught." I looked to the Captain, a Balmorran named Jer Malane. He nods approvingly, and I continue. "Get the missile tubes loaded. We'll use every concussion on the ship, if we have to. Keep the turbos focused on the foremost Imperator. Bring around Plath and Manchur, we'll need support if we're going toe to toe with an ISD." I sound out the acronym, eye-ess-dee. "Tell the Vanity she's responsible for the other."

My commands pan out even as I say them, pilots rushing their fighters out of the bay, and lingering between the Scarborough and Vanity, and two smooth Lancers- ships neatly designed to scuttle small, single-pilot spacecraft, peel in between the Star Destroyers. Manchur and Plath, Carracks both, move starboard of my own ship. The enemy TIEs are running towards the Vanity, and it's looking like suicide.. the Lancers, as well as two dozen of my own TIES, lie in their way, when I feel a pang of Force intuition, and I focus closer.. each of the fighters has a massive missile attatched to its underbelly.

I move to warn the Vanity, but it's a moment too late.. the 24 fighters each fire off their rocket and swing away again. A fair number of them manage to scorch the Lancers with their lasers on the ride back towards their fleet (to no effect), but well over half are caught by laserfire and destroyed. Green Wing, 72 TIEs based off of the Vanity, are well to the Dreadnaught, but a squad breaks off to mop up the pirate's fighters.

The missiles are by no means as fast as lasers, and I'm quite impressed as the Lancers pick off a few before they crash into the side of one massive shield generator. I can feel death through the Force, and there is no doubt that Vanity has lost ray shielding.

I grimace, uncertain of my odds. The nearest help is hours away, Grunger, who's supposedly having a great deal of trouble with the Mandalorians. A few weeks and I've already had enough ugly comm exchanges with him to expect little more than nothing from his end.

"Let's try to knock off the Dread, and keep Green Wing out of their Lancer's sights. See if you can pull it away, out of the crowd, and we'll hit it with our Customs Frigates." With luck, they're fast and heavy enough to rip it up and get out of there before the heavy ships can move in. With the Lancer gone, and then the Carracks, the slow turbolaser batteries on the ISDs would have trouble sniping the quick Interceptors in my command.

I wipe my brow. This feels good.

[Sean Piett]

So it's been a few minutes.. I've got seventy-two greedy Interceptors raking at the Dreadnaught, and I'm less than impressed. They're doing a decent job taking out the weapons batteries and doing some surface damage, but that's all cosmetic and the turbos can't pick 'em off anyhow. The fighters have no firepower, no shields, and less speed than I'd ask for, but single-man ships were never really the basis of the Imperial war machine anyway. Still, it's a concern for future examination.. I know as well as anyone else that a bare few X-Wings were responsible for the Death Star's destruction.

No reason to change the plan, though, not now as the enemy Lancer is moving at them. It harries them off of the Dread and pursues, vaping four of them dead-on and sending a fifth tumbling into empty space. The Lancer is well out of the fleet's care when it realizes just what's going on, and begins to turn about. It's too late, though. Four Imperial Customs Corvettes are coarsing at it, and six turbolaser batteries apeice, they chew the ship apart before it can even begin to return to the fleet proper.

"Get them and the fighters together, have 'em finish off the Dread. Then get them aft of the Star Destroyers. Don't have them attack, yet." I'm answered with an affirmative, and look out to see the ships scoot off at some eighty MGLT.

With the Lancer's destruction, the rest of the pirate fleet is finally shaken into action. The lot of the ships begin to lurch forward, but they're all still several minutes out of range. "I want a Lancer port of the Scarborough and one starboard of Vanity. Get the Carracks flanking us too, with one between. We have twelve recon fighters.. I want them off the Carracks and on above, below, and behind us. Captain, see if you can get a reading on these ship's serials, maybe we'll find out where they're from." He nods, but we both already have our suspicions.

[Sean Piett]

Ugh. What would a real admiral do? I glance at the captain for the twentieth time, but he's all boot-scraping and saluting and somehow impressed by my appointment, too polite to step in and take the reigns. That's fine. Blast him.

These rankplates here say I'm an admiral, and I'll do my best. But I'm outgunned like like a Gammorean is dumb, or it looks that way with those steely mountains boring down on me. This flagship of mine is built for seige, not nose-to-nose turbolaser quickdraw. I figure if I make it out of this dingy middle-of-nowhere system in one piece I'll lay a hell of a seige reward myself.

My own expertise doesn't seem to offer me much benefit in this kind of combat, but I'm sure there's some way to twist the Force to benefit a fleet. I've seen the Emperor blast down Prophets and Guards with twisting, jumping lightening, and Kadann has spoken of meditations and storms that could uplift or destroy fleets..

Obviously, my talents, in the Force and in strategy, could use some sharpening. No time like the present.

[Sean Piett]

Snap. Vision. I reel, and catch myself on a handrail, and that's the first time I've seen that safety precaution do any good. Well, could have seen- my eyes are pressed shut as firmly as a sober noblewoman's legs. While my index and middle fingers are rubbing at my temples, trying to massage out the pain, my body slumps and my breathing accelerates like a racing pod. But I slide out of it in ten, fifteen seconds, and I know what to do.

I guess necessity births innovation.

"Captain, you have the bridge. And," I add, as he looks at me, terrified, "The fleet. I will not be disturbed." I briskly walk off the bridge, and can feel the fear and anger at my ponderous decision to leave them. I smile.. the fear and anger will only help me.

Takel has set up a decent office for himself, just off the bridge. When I go in, though, I don't turn around, I just turn off the lights and sit cross-legged on the floor. Meditation, I can do. Telepathy, empathy, and prophesy being my areas of expertise, I've spent a lot of time in deep thought. I run through one of the simpler, quicker ways to slide into trance.. I watch my body in third person, floating in vacuum, slowly blurring and pixelating. the image of me shifts into an uncertain mosaic of dull color, and slowly dims until it matches the space around it.

Bang, trance achieved.

Now, I move my mind. The setting is here, this sector, this time. I force myself to bring that image to mind. And there it is.. the my ships, the pirates coming at them.. and I touch the minds. Fear and anger are spreading quickly through my small flotilla. Back in the dark room, my body grunts in pleasure at feeling it. Straining like a bantha pulling a sandcrawler, I try to grab and concentrate their fears and uncertainties, and shift them to the looming pirates, and do to no small effect. These pirates, I can now tell, are manning their ships on less than skeleton crew. No wonder, I realize, they haven't sent out any more fighters. Their own morale is rapidly declining as I oppress them mentally.

The sureties and faith reversed, I reach out to the fighters and customs frigates scraping at the Dreadnaught. How much more effectively could they be organized, I remark. Making small adjustments, warning ships out of the path of lasers, and soon micromanaging hundreds of small actions all across the span of the battlefield..





"Admiral? Sir?" I open my eyes. Brilliant lights and hospital-white walls blind me. "Admiral, are you awake?" Oh, I realize. I'm in the medical wing.

"Mrf?' I force out, quite brilliantly. "What is this?"

"We found you in the office, sir, sweating and chanting and as far as we could tell, unconscious. It's been about four hours since the battle ended."

"Ended?"

"Yes, sir, everything seemed to start going just right. If I may say so, sir, many of the men seem to think it had something to do with your Force magic. Sir." I say nothing.

"Losses?"

"Negligible, sir, nothing could hit the fighters. Our missiles destroyed the shields and bridges of their capital ships without waste or failure before they could really unload on us. Imagine the luck." I could feel his awe. "Both of the ISDs are actually salvageable. We boarded them after destroying the bridges, killed most of the pirates. A lot killed themselves, actually. It'll take some serious repairs, but.. the Carracks and the Dreadnaught, though, they're scrap. Sir." I stared at the man as he recounted the entire tale, brief images of the conflict flashing to mind. I must have lost myself in the trance. Thank the Force I didn't lose the fleet, too. Any larger of a battle, and I could have gone completely mad under the pressure.

Innovation births accomplishment.

"And, sir.. You missed a comm from Lord Darth Vader. Sir."

Accomplishment births me probably being Force-choked from half a galaxy away for being passed out in my office during a fevered battle.

[Sean Piett]

"Darth Vader," I say, having connected with him. "I apologize for missing your efforts to contact me earlier. My fleet was engaging another and I had withdrawn myself." It wasn't easy to get through this without stumbling or sweating.

His person is every centimeter of its true height in this holo-projection, and the monster cants his head towards me. The chestpeice on him is flashing. I wonder what that means. "I saw the effects of Battle Meditation on your men, Admiral Piett." He inhaled heavily, that deep SCUBA suck. "You would do well to further develop that skill. The Emperor has grown weary of Grand Admiral Takel. His loyalty to Spice precedes his loyalty to the New Order. When he returns, you are to capture and kill him. You will remain in control of his fleets."

"Yes, Darth Vader." As a Prophet, I am not taken to calling him Lord. "If I may, something else very important has arisen.." I trail off, waiting for that polished dome helmet to nod.

"Proceed," he booms.

"Moff Luxado is a spicer. Used glitterstim to read my mind. And I believe both he and Grand Admiral Grunger are traitors. My intuition tells me the revolt on Mandalore is a product of their prodding and support. In addition, they have turned many ships over to pirates who I believe support them." I breath upon finishing that, hoping I'd made a strong enough case en brief to convince Vader without any real evidence- which of course I had none.

"Kill them both, then, and take their power for yourself. The Empire has no time for Warlords and defectors." He glares through his tinted eyepieces, as if warning me what would happen if I made their mistake. "Admiral Piett."

His holo blinks out of being, leaving no mark of it's existence but the low hum of the projector winding down. I smile at the product of my words. I beleive them all, of course, but hadn't expected the Dark Lord of the Sith to do the same.. still, vast, vast power was quickly coming into my hands.

Moving to sit at my desk, I open a drawer and pull out a small cylinder. I crack it above my mouth like a glow stick, breaking it, and the powdery contents fall into my open mouth, activating as light graces them.

Luxado was good to give me all this glitterstim, I thought as I slipped into a high. Killing him would be nothing personal, of course.


And on Endor, one Luke Skywalker was turning himself in.

[Sean Piett]

And now, in the PRESENT, miles above the surface of the rebelling planet MANDALORE...

Having ordered the capture of Takel's shuttle some half hour, Piett was getting antsy. A flight of TIEs had gotten the broad Lambda past the battle and the party was rounding the planet, when..

"Sir, the Mandalorian fleet is retreating."

Piett looked over, working the thought through his mind. This was their home planet, and by all means their last stand.. surely they must have seen the assault his ship was laying on the planet? So why flee, and leave their entire populace to murder?

It didn't smell like cowardice.

"Are we to stop the bombardment, sir?"

He was rotating a computer's stylus between his fingers. Immediately, he gave his answer: "No. I'm not going to coddle these ones. General?"

A man in trench-olive uniform, black gloves, and sloped helmet- Piett thought back to Vader- stepped forward, having remained silent for several hours. "Sir," he acknowledged, saluting.

"The Vanity is to load its AT barges and shuttles, move into orbit and drop the prefab garrisons. Get the ATs and Stormtroopers on planet. From there, you will move into the city. I'm leaving you the fighter support, but we," he was referring to the Scarborough and the Vanity, "Will be moving along the atmosphere to meet Grand Admiral Takel's shuttle."

"I'll begin my attack plan immediately, Sir." He clicked his heels and began to move away when Piett touched him with the Force, the equivalent of a hand on a shoulder. The General stopped and turned back to face the Admiral, pale.

"Destroy everything. I want the city battered and bloodied and dead." The officers were looking around at each other, but remained silent until the General murmured an affirmative and left the bridge. "Move the ship, Captain. The Vanity will have to catch up." The Captain didn't respond. "Captain?"

"I'm sorry, sir," he spoke, "I've just gotten word that Grand Admiral Grunger is moving after the shuttle with ISDs Longingus and Blitzen. We will still meet the Grand Admiral well before them, sir."

"How convenient," Piett mused, "That the Mandalorian fleet left and freed up the Grand Admiral to come racing after his peer. Do you know many of the captains in Grand Admiral Takel's fleet?"

He nodded. "As Scarborough was the flagship of Grand Admiral Takel's fleet, I have often been in communication with a great part of his fleet."

"Contact the captains you know are loyal, and have them prepare to fire upon Grand Admiral Grunger's fleet." The Captain gave a start at that, but Piett did nothing to comfort him, just nodded grimly as his ship set off at a dead run towards two Grand Admirals.

[Sean Piett]

"Admiral Piett," a stark white Stormtrooper introduced, "Grand Admiral Miltin Takel."

The shuttle and her escort had just docked in the ships empty bays some minutes before, and found the Lambda-class bare of any life but the officer.

He was the standard junkie, sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. His white uniform was in shabby keep, small tears and bits of motor grease and dirt staining it, and it hung loosely off of him, his body thinned by the drug. His rankplates hung crooked off his starved chest.

"My appreciation for looking after my fleet during my absence, Piett. Though I am curious to return to such.. confusion."

Piett said nothing.

"Terrask." He was referring to the captain. "Bring the rest of the fleet around, we'll see if we can't sort out this mess with Grunger."

The captain said nothing.

"You've been in communication with the Grand Admiral, then?" Piett prodded.

"Of course, since leaving the Death Star. Now, Terrask," he coughed violently into his hand, dark blood and brown bile.

"Too much glitterstim, Grand Admiral." Piett moved closer.

"What? Don't be- what, Terrask? What's going..?" He looked around, and realized he couldn't probe any of these men's minds- a telepathic side affect that had made glitterstim the criminal success it was. He looked to Piett. "You!"

Two stormtroopers grabbed his arms as he reached for his blaster. Piett had told them all of Vader's orders, and they feared their new Admiral and his curious Force powers. He was a Dark Prophet, they knew, a secretive and frightening society close to Palpatine's heart.

"I'd love nothing more than to spend a long afternoon with you, but I have another Grand Admiral to kill. Congratulations on rising so high in the Empire, sir." With that, Piett raised a blaster from his belt, a handheld Disruptor. The guards holding Takel moved away while the man slumped into a a pile of limb, head, and torso.. Piett, as he held the blaster level, was twisting his emotions, replacing his anger with fear and doubt. Now angling the gun at his resigned head, Sean pushed in the firing pad and a massive surge nearly disintegrated the former Grand Admiral, leaving little but cauterized bits of flesh.