The Price of Treason

[Telan Desaria]

Orbit of Commenor
Corellian Sector


“ So what have you heard?” asked Pol Tanabrin, Gunner’s Mate, Second Class. To his left, Gunner’s Mate, First Class Frodik Graska wrinkled his nose at the smell of freshly applied coil lubricant. Both men, their turquoise jumpsuits soiled in oil and grime, looked rather miniscule compared to the rather massive casement-mounted turbolaser cannon. Firing the great weapon was only a fraction of a gun crew’s life, maintenance occupying the remainder. As tedious as it was, there was no mystery to the gun-captains as to how rumors started. Idle talk…


“ About what? Where we’re going? Heh - I’ve heard plenty, none of it good. The Rebels have kidnapped two Grand Admirals and replaced them with doppelgangers. That’s why they’re going at it, trying to thin our resources out so they can pile in when there’s nothing left.”


“ Oooo,” Tanabrin whistled, moving around his partner to the cannon’s breech lock mechanism. “ Sounds pretty dark. Damned Rebels. But you know, I was talking to Sergeant Perthman from that Army company we picked up the other day and he said the Rebs put some sort of mind-control gas into some of the Sector Fleet ships and are moving them remotely from near Endor.”


Graska stepped off the small step-ladder and looked at his work. A copious amount of lubricant now glistened on the right-recoil slide. Proud but tired, the man sighed; it had taken almost two hours to completely lube the six-meter section. “ Nah - filters would take care of that stuff. I’d bet on droids or something-”


“ You know, I really hope ISB or some of the Redboys hear you talking about that stuff.” Both young men turned to see the gruff gun-captain standing behind them, cigarra clamped between stained teeth. The sheer mention of the Inquisitoriate shut the pair up who replied only with dumb smiles on their faces. The Petty Officer grunted something profane and walked off, leaving the two to resume their speculation.



* * *
Six hundreds meters to the Aft
* * *


“ Captain, four frigates have reverted to real space at the system’s periphery. They read as part of the Thirtieth Light Squadron.”


“ The Thirteth, eh? That would be the Grand Admiral’s escorts then. He’s only moments behind. Send word to all ships - prepare for inspection.”


“ Aye sir,” replied the Talon’s executive officer. Captain Maitinger stood there, facing fore and squinting out into space at where the four small frigates were slowly coming into visual range. They heralded the arrival of Baron Telan Desaria - the one man who beat him at Dejarik at the Academy. And an underclassman at that! The moment of embarrassment had lasted for the next two years until graduationn, filling the now-Captain with a deep-seated resentment for the younger officer who now held a command he could only dream of.


That bastard. I should have beaten the little sod during our combat classes when I had the chance. Now he’s got an SSD and I’m on one of the oldest Mark Star Destroyers in the Fleet!


“ Sir, here she comes.”


Captain Maitlinger lost his focus on the small Fire-class Light Frigates in their impressive diamond formation. Instead he could not help but bask in the grandeur of the Super-class Star Destroyer Intimdiator.


The Captain growled. This was going to be a long operation…




OOC Note - This thread takes places after the Siege of Doldur, thread as yet unnamed.

[Sean Piett]

The New Order always worked in polygons, in jagged and angular designs that rode perpendicular to the standard view of sleekness representing modernity. The Lambda-class shuttle Piett was reclined in was evidence enough of that, but the cyclopean Super Star Destroyer looming ever larger in the forwards viewport was the avatar of sharp Imperial fascism.

And it worked. What inspired fear more than the slanted prow of a Star Destroyer? Than a TIEs screaming, near-hexagonal wings as they race past, strafing and leering with that single giant eyeball? And not just fear, but respect. Respect for that raw power that had made order of an entire galaxy. But that order was gone, the galaxy in open revolt. Piett didn't particularily care for hierarchy and organization, but in its absense, he'd realized, he had to work his <font size=-2>patootie?</font> off. He felt as if he'd killed more rebels and traitors in the last year than Star's End Prison had ever seen.

The cabin door was open, the pilots voice quickly and professionally securing port. Glancing around, Sean judged his entrouge was paltry at best. His shuttle was flanked by four fighters and carrying only himself, two crewmen, two guards and an attendant. In his time at Palpatine's court, the Prophet had grown accustomed to Imperial Center's shoulder-to-shoulder security and doting courtesans. These last few months, however, had violently shaken that lifestyle out of view. But not out of memory, Sean appraised sadly, some vague part of him missing the conspiracy and drama that had so enveloped him.

He hoped deeply that this Grand Admiral would prove intriguing. The last few he'd encountered had been passable, after their own fashion, but it wasn't a lasting interest. As the shuttle landed, he planted his hands to either side of him and rose to his feet. In a few seconds, the slow, pneumatic ramp had touched the polished durasteel deck of the bay. Piett stepped out of the shuttle with all the carefully managed flair of a nobleman. The transformation from slouching sulk to upright aristocrat was quick and powerful, like the humming stretch of a lightsaber turned on.

He'd long debated his attire, ponderous of what would most befit the journey. His position in the Admiralty was insecure, and he disliked the idea of a few rank plates and cylinders putting Desaria above him. The dark uniform would only serve to engender disparity. On the other hand, the deep black, star-flecked robes of the Prophets of the Dark Side inspired a lot less recognition and fear outside of the court, where everyone knew that starscape pattern meant you were a mean cuss. So he'd adopted dark blue and green robes, draping tail and flared sleeves of a sort that had been High Fashion in the Core.

The Grand Admiral Desaria stood just meters before him. Sean stooped in a masterful bow of generous depth. "Grand Admiral. I have the honor of being Sean Piett, all titles and honoraries aside. It is a pleasure to meet you."

[Telan Desaria]

The shuttle bay aboard a Super Star Destroyer was a vast, almost cavernous expanse filled more with empty space than it was with the various devices needed to land, store, and maintain the charges that came and went with such frequency. However, even Imperial pilots needed room to maneuver thus making the vast space a neccessity - far from the wasteful extravagance opponents of the titannic command ships liked to say.


Grand Admiral-Baron Telan Desaria looked around the bay as the latest arrival made a well-practised approach and effortlessly-executed landing. The carrier was typical - a grey-white Lambda-class Shuttle, one of many forms recognizeable in every corner of the galaxy as a symbol of Imperial Might and Majesty.


When the craft landed it disgorged some attendants and then the being sent by order of the Executor himself. The being, obviously a human man from what the officer could see, offered a stately bow.


"Grand Admiral. I have the honor of being Sean Piett, all titles and honoraries aside. It is a pleasure to meet you."


Baron Desaria moved forward and lowered his haad in reply. He took full measure of the man but could draw too few conclusions, only questions. The guest no doubt did the same, looking at the white-uniformed Grand Admiral with polished jackboots, the Imperial Cross dangling at his neck, an impeccably-trimmed coating of jet-black hair, and piercing emerald eyes.


" You have been sent to me by the Executor himself as an aide in the coming operation. You have dealt with a rebellious officer before. Do you think you stand up to the challange of facing two rebbellious officers of unquestioned skill and experience? Make no mistake, the treasonous parties we go to dispatch are not the petty Captains and Commodores who have seen fit to wall of a system and proclaim themselves King. We go now to dispatch two derranged men who share my rank.


" We go to bring down two rogue Grand Admirals."

[Sean Piett]

As the Grand Admiral spoke, Piett locked his fingers and rested them on his abdomen in a pensieve pose. Memories cycled through his mind, first slowly but with increasing rapidity, like the incremental accelleration of an old Skyhopper.

Grand Admiral Takel, gaunt and strung out on bad drugs, first kneeling and pleading, then a few sticky bits of corpse. The Disrupter in my hand, firing pad squeezed tight. Grunger's battered Star Destroyer, finally knocked from orbit by a turbolaser battery and plunging all a firey mess into Mandalore's atmosphere. Grand Admiral Takel, gaunt and strung out..

"Executor Sevon has appraised me of the situation," the Prophet replied politely. "I am unconcerned with it. I stand on the graves of two Grand Admirals already, one disintegrated on the bridge of his own flagship and the other bested in naval engagement. I only hope that these are the last two to betray the Order."

[Telan Desaria]

By the Gods, it was him!


The realization was unsettling though it did not show on the youthful yet battle hardened facade the Grand Admiral wore so effortlessly. This man, Piett, at the conclusion of the operation would be responsible for the death of four Grand Admirals! Desaria had no qualms with dispatching traitors and indeed the previous two had both deserved to die. The closeness of the matter to his own heart was, in a word, unsettling.


" I did not know that a single man had dealt with both of those incidents. You are quite experienced then and will prove most useful. Here we have a unique situation. While both men have gone quite mad with ambition their men on average are still loyal Imperials, convinced by their commands that theirs is the only vestige of the Empire. Communications blackouts are in effect allowing each respective Admiral to play puppet master. These loyal men will die if a battle comes to a head - -and it will - but I would like to stem that slaughter if at all possible. That is why you are here.


" Tell me. Do you know anything of Il-Raz or Pitta?"

[Sean Piett]

So, Desaria intended to act as both blade and tourniquet, knife and bandage. Foolish, Piett thought, Make an example. Kill the lot. Do simple crewmen and serfs deserve to survive the deaths of their titanic leaders? But this was not the time, or place, for Sean's zeal to shine through.

"I have met them both," he started. "Il-Raz was a greatly loyal man, ever worshipful of the Emperor, and ever visiting court. A politician, however, who did not belong in the Admiralty." Something like me, the Prophet fancied. But then, I'm here to remedy that. "A real Hutt with money, though. But then, I suppose there will always be more people to tax.

"Danetta Pitta I know somewhat more thoroughly." He reflected on a time the two had had caf on Byss, where they'd been to christen the Emperor's retreat. "We share a great many ideals and ideas. It will be a stirring loss for the Empire. Clearly, though, he must be killed. While Il-Raz will be a pushover in vacuum, Danetta earned his title through military merit. And it may be that he has assembled some small collection of surprises to thwart the efforts of those still loyal to the New Order."

[Telan Desaria]

He knows them better than I do. The thought did not suprise him too much, however. For a year he had held the title of Grand Admiral and in that time he had bene battling Rebels from one end of the galaxy to the other. Time for rest and relaxation had been few and far between, leaving none at all for the cordialities and pleasures the Navy's highets rank had to offer.


" You are an excellent choice indeed to be sent to me. The Executor also believes I can impart the knolwedge from my years of Naval experience upon you. Well, I make no promises, but I shall try."


Desaria turned and began strolling aft, the other man in tow. Some of the staff members, as rough a description as any, fell in at a distance behind.


" I knew of Il-Raz when he put down the Hilari Revolt shortly after Endor. He is fanatically loyal to the Emperor as you said. I would imagine his betrayal stems from seeing the Empire as belonging to the Emperor and the only real orders thusly coming from him. A man without sight as to what will be. As for Pitta, I know nothing of him. You say he has experience? Of course he does! He is a Grand Admiral. But we shall dispatch them all the same.


" Tell me, how am I to refer to you? Do you carry a Naval rank?"

[Sean Piett]

Sean studied Desaria's reaction and analysis, tempted to probe the Grand Admirals mind more personally through the Force or glitterstim. He brushed that idea aside, however, and kept his face sober and unemotional.


"Naval rank? Indeed, I do. That title, however, was granted as an honorary for a mission that has long since been completed. Hopefully, as the Executor intended, some small bit of your experience will pass to me. Perhaps I will learn enough to properly wear a uniform." He paused, uncertain of just what he should share. "Until such time, however, you may refer to me by my court titles; as a Prophet of the Dark Side or a Deacon of that Church. Deacon or Prophet will do nicely."

[Telan Desaria]

" Very good. Deacon."


The Grand Admiral had to think on the title. With the sole exception of representatives of various churches, he had never heard the sobriquet. Not applied to someone in the Empire's service, anyway.


" I shall send out a General Order for you to be referred to as such. Join me, please, I have a bottle of cognac which should not go to waste. We need only await the arrival of Imperial Intelligence's operative before we depart."