"Here we are, sir, Imperial Palace," declared the shuttle pilot, doing his best not to sound bored as he spoke. A stereotypically hot-blooded Corellian by birth, he'd been flying over Ryloth less than a month ago, dodging turbolaser fire to deliver Stormtroopers to hotly-contested landing zones. Ferrying VIPs from one landing pad to another was a little sedentary for his style. "'scuse me, sir, Imperial ExComm."

Gilad Pellaeon smiled to himself as the shuttle touched down with the faintest of bumps, pocketing the datapad he'd been skimming. "Don't worry, Colonel, I have trouble keeping track of it myself," he assured, as the pilot raced through the landing checklist. "I'm old enough to remember when it was still the Presidential Palace."

The pilot glanced back from the cockpit at that, a bemused grin peeking out from beneath the visor of his helmet. It was technically against regs to be using the old names for these places - whether they'd been christened by Palpatine or the Old Republic - but nobody was going to be chewing out the Hammer of the Empire anytime soon.

(That moniker, unfortunately, had stuck, no matter how preposterous Pellaeon himself thought it was.)

Pellaeon descended the landing ramp without further comment, where a fresh-faced Imperial officer stood standing at attention, the fringe of her tunic being buffeted gently by the winds. Behind her towered Imperial Executive Command - ExComm for short, Imperial Palace if you wanted people to actually know where you meant. It had grown since the last time he'd been planetside, new wings stuffed with bureaucrats and administrators popping out like tumors. Symbolism and protocol demanded that Thrawn occupy the complex, though the new owner seemed to have no love lost for its overbearing grandiloquence. Perhaps, Pellaeon mused, that was the cause of all the construction, mutating it into something entirely new. He made a mental note to review what other redevelopment projects were being planned for the Palace District.

"Admiral Pellaeon, sir," greeted the officer, snapping to a crisp salute. Upon reaching the base of the landing pad Pellaeon realized that she wasn't human but Zabrak, with two stubby horns left unconcealed by her cap. "Welcome to ExComm."

"It's good to be back," he replied, returning her salute with practiced ease. Over her shoulder, Pellaeon noticed a small hovercart idling discreetly, conspicuously configured with comfortable seats. He scoffed slightly. His knees weren't that bad. Not yet.

"Walk with me, Lieutenant," Pellaeon instructed, strolling through the bay doors that lead into the Palace. He'd told the pilot to drop him off at the service entrance, rather than any of the more beautified approaches. He was reaching the age where he cared more about getting there quickly rather than taking the scenic route. "Have you been posted to ExComm long, Lieutenant...?"

"Illyra, sir," she finished for him. "And I'm approaching a year, sir. Prior to that I was on the Protector."

"A good ship," Pellaeon replied, a little indistinctly. He was still taking in the unfamiliar sites of the Palace, changed so much since his last campaign had launched. Corridors which had once seemed cavernous now thronged with activity, droids and officers and civil servants now bustled about with a purposeful buzz, creating a constant murmur of footfalls and muted conversations. "And how are you finding ExComm?"

Illyra blinked for a second, but maintained her pace. They reached a turbolift, which she opened with a touch of her code cylinder. "Fascinating, sir. This is my first staff assignment and I was worried I was going to be bored..."

She trailed off momentarily, no doubt doubting the wisdom of airing that particular suspicion. Pellaeon just chuckled a little, rubbing his mustache. "Boredom is never a bad thing for a soldier, Lieutenant," he replied.

"Yes, sir," Illyra mumbled back, as the turbolift began its ascent. Like his Corellian pilot, Pellaeon knew, she was still young enough to be chasing glory on the battlefield, hoping to prove herself to the galaxy. She perked up. "But working under the Grand Admiral has been such an honor. I've learned so much just by being in the same room as him."

"I'm familiar with the feeling."

The turbolift doors parted, a Stormtrooper positioned on either side of the threshold, where Red Guards had once stood. Despite himself, Pellaeon swallowed. This had once been the Emperor's throne room, a place only spoken about in hushed tones in private quarters. The Rebels - in their short occupation of Imperial Center - had never been able to do anything with the room, sealing it off while they debated whether it should be turned into a memorial or simply renovated out of existence.

As Pellaeon entered, he saw that the Grand Admiral had been busy in his absence.

On either side of Pellaeon were a row of consoles, lining the long corridors leading to the dais, not unlike the bridge crew of a Star Destroyer. As he passed them, Pellaeon stole sideways glances at the screens, peering over the shoulders of uniformed officers and suited civilians. Instead of astronavigation displays, weapons systems, and engine statuses, Pellaeon saw economic figures, industrial outputs, census numbers and budget reports. The walls themselves were covered with a lattice mesh, on which dozens of ysalamiri dozed on nutritional frames.

Pellaeon stopped at the base of a flight of stairs, which sloped gradually upwards.

"Admiral Pellaeon," a voice rung out from above, seeming to echo despite its modest volume.

A lifetime of military discipline straightened Pellaeon's posture, his hand rising to a severe salute. "Grand Admiral." Pellaeon's eyes squinted a little, unable to properly parse form from shadow. Thrawn obviously hadn't thrown all of Palpatine's aesthetic to the wind.

"Come," the Grand Admiral beckoned, with an authority that Pellaeon had no choice but to obey. He made his way up the sloping steps, his knees protesting on every level. Only when he was a few feet away could his eyes properly make out the figure who sat enthroned atop the dais. Grand Admiral Thrawn was reclining comfortably in his seat, which had been extracted intact from the bridge of the Chimaera. He sat with one leg crossed over the opposite knee, his fingers steepled, his uniform as white and immaculate as ever. A semicircle of holoscreens ringed the Admiral's throne, a panel flickering every few seconds. Pellaeon couldn't read the mirrored Aurebesh, but he could make out a navigation map of the Tingel Arm easily enough.

"It has been a long time, Admiral," Thrawn began, with the closest approximation of warmth the Chiss would ever muster. He dismissed the holoscreens with a wave of his hand. "Tell me: what do you think of the changes I have made?"

Pellaeon cast another glance over his shoulder, to the facsimile bridge crew that was monitoring the galaxy instead of the Chimaera. "ExComm seems much more functional than when the Emperor ran it," he began, choosing his words carefully. "And you're running the galaxy the same way you'd command a battle."

Thrawn smiled slightly at that last observation, his cheek tugging upwards in a thin grin. "Old habits, Admiral," he replied, with what could have been self-deprecation. "I find it efficient to retain the familiar system. But come," he spun his chair about, so it faced the window instead of the chamber. Pellaeon strolled around Thrawn’s throne, taking in the expanse of Coruscant before him. The sun was setting, half-obscured by unseasonably thick clouds. A squad of TIE Interceptors trailed along the horizon, conducting an unhurried patrol of ExComm's security perimeter. "You must tell me of your campaign against the Hutts."

Pellaeon allowed himself to cock an eyebrow. He could hardly delude himself into believing that the Grand Admiral hadn't been closely tracking the campaign. Thrawn had, after all, envisioned and detailed it, even if his galaxy-governing obligations precluded him from leading it personally.

"The kajidics have been shattered, sir," Pellaeon dutifully reported, though the news would have raced through the HoloNet far faster than he had. "The Besadii and Desilijic kajidics have been brought to the brink of annihilation. We have established new spacedocks at Nar Bo Sholla, Nar Kreeta, Sleheyron, and reclaimed the one at Teth. The Huttese slave networks have been co-opted, and will supply conscripts for a garrison force." The precise distinctions between a conscript and a slave forced to fight was a little academic to Pellaeon, but such was the jargon of the Empire. "The repossessed intake centers on Klatooine and Gamorr are already operating at capacity."

Thrawn paused, surveying his most loyal subordinate. "And what of Nal Hutta and the Smuggler's Moon?" he asked, coolly.

Pellaeon cleared his throat. "The shadowports of Nar Shaddaa have been destroyed, sir. The infrastructure of the smuggling galaxy no longer exists." His throat tightened a little, as Thrawn's red eyes bore down upon him. "Nal Hutta has been subjected to a Base Delta Zero orbital bombardment. We estimate 90% fatalities."

Something in the old admiral's stomach tightened. Thrawn knew this, of course, he was the bloody bastard who had ordered it. But for all the battles and wars Pellaeon fought, such acts of destruction still disquieted the old man. Less so the inhuman mastermind who now ruled the Empire - one need only ask the inhabitants of Honoghr.

"You have executed my plan flawlessly, Admiral," Thrawn congratulated. Pellaeon allowed himself barely a glimmer of pride. "The galaxy will be more stable for your efforts."

"Thank you, sir," Pellaeon replied, a little robotically. He had no doubt that Thrawn's words were true, but that didn't mean he enjoyed the process any more. "Sir, I would like to request-"

The request for leave remained unvoiced as a flutter of motion caught his eye. It was the young lieutenant from before, Illyra, scurrying nervously up the dais. Pellaeon took a half-step to the side, allowing her to approach the Grand Admiral unimpeded. Now, she had no time for even a sideways glance at him.

"Grand Admiral," she said, her breathing suggesting she'd literally raced to his chair. Thrawn's eyes narrowed, but he expressed no annoyance at her interruption. "Pursuant t-to your standing order," she swallowed loudly, "I am informing you that we have lost contact with ExGal-4, in the Dalonbian sector."

Pellaeon blinked. He'd never heard of ExGal-4, and had only the vaguest idea of where the Dalonbian sector was. Lieutenant Illyra continued speaking as he pondered. "ExGal Command messaged that it's likely a carbonaceous asteroid, sir."

"It was not an asteroid, Lieutenant Illyra."

Pellaeon turned to face the Grand Admiral, who was currently pressing his index fingers to his brow. His head was tilted downwards, his voice low, almost a murmur. In that moment, Pellaeon saw Thrawn as he never had before. Pellaeon had heard that lamenting tone just once before, as Rukh’s blade had pierced his lung, and he’d feared all had been lost. "If I'd had a few more years..."

"Sir?" Pellaeon and Illyra spoke simultaneously.

Thrawn raised his head, shaking it slightly. Gone was whatever weariness had marred his face before; a newfound hardness presented itself. With a flick of his fingers he summoned a solitary holoscreen before his command chair, twice verifying his identity via a code cylinder. Pellaeon recognized the strategic command interface Thrawn pulled up, which was used for communicating with generals and admirals across the Empire. With a tap of a button, Thrawn opened a communications channel.

"This is Grand Admiral Mitth'raw'nuruodo," he declared, invoking the one Cheunh name every sentient in the Empire knew. "By order of the Empire, the Reichenbach Contingency is now in effect across Imperial Space. You are commanded to execute your orders, upon penalty of court martial and execution." He paused momentarily, a most un-Thrawn-like hesitation, before invoking a blessing that still carried so much strength. "May the Force be with you."

All around the galaxy, from the Deep Core to Wild Space, orders were being unsealed, decrypted, studied, stared at. Thrawn's transmission had authorized the release of a contingency plan stored in the command console of every Star Destroyer from Byss to Bastion, relayed to every supply depot and spaceport. Within hours, every Imperial servicemen, from the lowliest Stormtrooper to the highest Moff, would have their lives turned upside down.

The severity of the contingency shocked many who read it, even as they prepared to execute it. As of now, all commercial vessels capable of freighting cargo were requisitioned into the Imperial Navy. As of now, rationing of critical resources including bacta, durasteel, and tibanna was in effect. As of now, the entire Imperial Fleet was to move to its highest state of readiness, preparing every vessel for a state of war.

As of now, universal conscription for all sentient adults was in effect, with call-up notices to be issued within one standard week.

"Sir?" Pellaeon glanced at the executive bridge crew suddenly going into overdrive. Lieutenant Illyra was visibly sweating, and even the Stormtroopers guarding the room looked nervous. And then it clicked. "The Far Outsiders."

Thrawn nodded, gravely. "Yes, Pellaeon, these are the monsters of my people's worst nightmares.” He pulled up two more holoscreens, displaying maps of the galaxy. "Though that is a xenophobic name given in ignorance. Our enemy is the Yuuzhan Vong, Admiral. And they seek our annihilation."

"I've never heard of them." It was Illyra who spoke, startling Pellaeon.

"You would not have, Lieutenant. Their existence is unknown to almost all in our galaxy." Thrawn's voice was ice. Not even in the worst days of their fight against the Rebellion could Pellaeon recall such graveness. "The Ascendancy - my people - encountered the Yuuzhan Vong over fifty years ago. We still know very little of them." Something about that admission chilled Pellaeon. "But I do not exaggerate when I say that they seek to destroy the galaxy as we know it."

Again, it was Lieutenant Illyra who spoke, while Pellaeon's mind still struggled to process. "You've been planning for this," she stated. "That's what the campaign against Hutt Space was for - you were neutralizing a potential collaborator."

Another time, Pellaeon would have expected Thrawn to smile slightly at the cleverness of a Lieutenant, but there was no appreciation of her intellect to be found. "Hutt Space," Thrawn seemed to sound the phrase out. "Hapes, before that. The warlords and the Rebellion. Nuso Esva. Outbound Flight."

"You knew they would hit the Dalonbian sector," Pellaeon stated, his brow furrowing. "Why not mass a fleet there?"

Thrawn shook his head, gently. "I suspected they would, Admiral, though there were other vectors they could have approached from. And if the estimates of the Ascendancy are correct, a fleet would barely slow them down." Thrawn scrutinized Pellaeon. "Admiral, we have just been attacked by an adversary that has spent millennia crossing the Intergalactic Void to reach us. They have the resources of an entire galaxy at their disposal, technology we have never encountered, and are unified in purpose and zealotry. I could mass every Expeditionary Fleet we have and barely slow them down."

Pellaeon paled. "How by the Force do we fight that?"

Thrawn glanced at him, his eyes a sanguine red. "We will spend the next year ceding space, Admiral. I do not know what strategy the Yuuzhan Vong will pursue, but I believe we will lose most of the Outer Rim within six standard months. If they press towards the Core using standard hyperspace lanes, we may barely hold the Inner Rim."

Thrawn exhaled. "But, Admiral: I assure you I have not been idle."

Tapping his fingers, Thrawn projected a massive map of the galactic plane before them, ExGal-4 already flashing red in the uppermost edge. The map was tied to the same strategic command interface that Thrawn used to direct the Imperial Fleet, containing real-time information on the Empire's strategic assets. "As of this moment, a crash shipbuilding program is in effect. Fleet construction has the highest priority on all Imperial resources."

Pellaeon watched the screen flicker as the standard cartographic icon for SHIPYARD began flashing into existence. Fondor, Kuat, Sluis Van, Corellia. But the Admiral squinted as more shipyards blinked onto the screen - at Neimodia, at Yaga Minor, at Dac and Roche. The holoscreens displayed their industrial output, estimating that x capital ships could be produced in y standard weeks. Conscript armies that Pellaeon never knew existed appeared in the Expansion Region and the Mid Rim, promising millions of soldiers. Sithspawn, even droid factories on Geonosis, Hypori, and Colla IV. Names he hadn't thought of since the Clone Wars.

"My apologies for keeping you in the dark, Admiral," Thrawn said, as his subordinate saw the Empire's strength seemingly double before his eyes. "But operational security demanded that the left hand of the Empire not know what the right was doing."

"A secret army..." Pellaeon breathed.

Thrawn inclined his head. "Not the first time you've encountered one, I'm aware," he replied, a little dryly. "Though this one has a rather different purpose."

Pellaeon moved to speak, but the room suddenly darkened. Pellaeon thought for a second that he'd missed the sunset, but the darkening had been far too quick and total. He and Illyra found themselves pressed against the window of Thrawn's throne room, staring out at the sky.

"I think you're due for a new flagship, Admiral," Thrawn remarked.

"That's an Executor-class SSD," Pellaeon noted, as he was finally able to see the outlines of the Super Star Destroyer that had appeared in low orbit above the Imperial Palace.

"Yes, the SSD Bilbringi," Thrawn confirmed, making a small gesture with his hand. "A bit of vanity, I know." Bilbringi - universally regarded as Thrawn's most brilliant display of strategic mastery. And had that Noghri knife been an inch-and-half to the left, it would also have been his grave. Instead, those dark red eyes watched Pellaeon unblinkingly. "You are hereby promoted to the rank of Grand Admiral, effective immediately. The Bilbringi is yours."

Somehow, that wasn't the most overwhelming sentence Pellaeon had heard that day.

"How many other Super Star Destroyers are you keeping hidden, sir?" he asked, the room brightening as the Bilbringi gradually transited across the disk of the sun.

"Seven," Thrawn answered, flatly. "Two of which will be transferred to the command of Moff Flennic."

"Flennic, sir?" Pellaeon asked, quizzically. Kurlen Flennic was known for the dubious honor of being the last living Moff to have been appointed by Emperor Palpatine. He'd somehow managed to keep his command over the decades since Endor, always doing his job well-enough to avoid dismissal by Thrawn (his well-documented xenophobia notwithstanding). "Do you think he's up to the task?"

Thrawn made the faintest of shrugs. "He can fight a defensive action better than any Moff or Admiral in the Fleet. Which is why I have already ordered him to block the Yuuzhan Vong's advancement for as long as possible."

'And should he die, well, there's plenty of talent in the ranks.' Nobody needed to say that aloud.

"Grand Admiral Pellaeon." Thrawn spoke the words, the deep solemnity of his voice reverberating through the throne room. "I have spent over four decades preparing the galaxy for this conflict."

The mist seemed to clear before Pellaeon's eyes. Thrawn was no egomaniac, but he'd conquered and consolidated power across the galaxy with tyrannical zeal. He'd suppressed dissent, rebellion, and separatism with cold-blooded ruthlessness. He'd stifled liberties, confiscated property, enslaved whole races and wiped out others. He'd given his life to this cause, and also the lives of many others. Used every tool from assassination to orbital bombardment to bring the galaxy to heel. For this. To fight the Far Outsiders.

"I am hereby placing you in command of the Imperial Fleet. You are ordered to martial all available forces for a defense of the Mid Rim Territories. You are authorized to take whatever means you deem necessary to affect the destruction of the Yuuzhan Vong."

Something he hadn't felt since enlisting at Raithal Academy lit a fire in Pellaeon's chest. The newly-minted Grand Admiral offered Mitth'raw'nuruodo a salute.

"Lieutenant Illyra, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Captain, and transferred to serve on the SSD Bilbringi as Grand Admiral Pellaeon's Executive Officer." Illyra snapped a salute with such enthusiasm that she knocked her cap of her head, revealing a half-dozen horns that hadn't been shaved in a while.

"And you, sir?" Pellaeon asked, as Illyra hurried to collected up her cap.

That small, triumphant smirk appeared again. The one that had preceded Obroa-skai, Ukio, Bilbringi. He remembered it from the first time they'd met, aboard the Chimera, deep in Unknown Space. "I will be running the rest of the Empire," he answered. "And advising on tactics where needed."

Pellaeon exhaled. It was, he had to admit, logical. If Thrawn was right about the titanic scale of the coming conflict - and he had no reason to believe otherwise - then even in command of an entire fleet Thrawn would be underutilizing his strategic talents. The forces at their disposal were easily a hundredfold in quantity what he had used to defeat the Rebel Alliance. His brilliance was needed further back, orchestrating the affairs not of a fleet but of a galaxy.

"Dismissed."

And just like that, Pellaeon went to war, his request for leave unvoiced and unremembered. He hurried down the steps of the dais, the pain in his knees forgotten, Captain Illyra hurrying to keep pace with the Hammer of the Empire.

"What are your orders, sir?" Illyra asked, as soon as they were in the turbolift, rocketing down towards a shuttle which would take Pellaeon to his new command.

And he knew what that order was, smiling a little as it came to his mind, unbidden but unavoidable. "Ready a message to Moff Flennic," Pellaeon dictated, as Illyra hurried to whip out a datapad.

"Yessir."

"Moff Flennic: You are hereby commanded to collect and preserve any artistic or cultural artifacts you recover from the extra-galactic invaders. And you are additionally commanded to return all such captured artifacts to the Coruscant Museum of Galactic Cultures as expediently as possible. Dictated but not read, Grand Admiral Pellaeon."

Illyra didn't question his orders, which surprised Pellaeon, for the half-second it took him to remember that she'd been working directly under Thrawn for the past year. No doubt doing much more than fetching caf and datapads. No doubt more than prepared to be Pellaeon’s XO.

"Very good, sir. Message sent." She smiled a little. "Did you know Grand Admiral Thrawn is the honorary chairman of the CMGC's board?"

"I had heard something to the effect," Pellaeon confirmed, stroking his mustache as he spoke.

They walked out the way they'd entered, with Pellaeon unsurprised to find his phalanx of Stormtroopers had doubled. Something he'd have to look forward to for the rest of the war, no doubt. In the distance, the Bilbringi floated in the orange-red sky, its size stretching the limits of what the human mind could comprehend. Already, the air was filled with Imperial vessels, ferrying troops, or officers, or equipment, executing the first stages of a plan Thrawn had spent forty years drafting.

There was a loud thump behind him, which Pellaeon realized was the boarding ramp of his shuttle being lowered. The same Corellian pilot from before emerged, snapping a smart salute. "Admiral Pellaeon, uh, sir. I have orders from the GADM to bring you to the Bilbringi as soon as possible." Even he was having difficulty understanding just where in Chaos it had come from.

With one last glance over his shoulder, Pellaeon took in the ancient Palace, which was changing yet again before his very eyes.

He knew he would not be seeing it again for a long, long time.