Grand Admiral

The T-4a Lambda-class shuttle had served the Imperial Starfleet, and indeed the entire military apparatus of the Galactic Empire, for decades, transporting passengers and deploying small infantry units to designated targets.

It was a reliable machine, faithfully responding to the commands of its crew and passengers.

However, Major General Veers was scarcely concerned with such matters.

Seated by the viewport, he gazed at the white-blue haze of hyperspace. His mind was clear of extraneous thoughts.

As always, he was immersed in work, analyzing the information at hand.

It was hardly surprising that Grand Admiral Thrawn's ground forces were not in optimal condition.

He had plenty of equipment.

Self-propelled guns, tanks, walkers, speeders, artillery... But the vast majority were outdated models from the Clone Wars era. Modern Imperial designs were present in quantities clearly insufficient to consider the units fully equipped.

This was due to the lack of industry to manufacture spare parts and produce necessary equipment. Any reserves, such as those for AT-TE walkers, were minimal. The Ciutric Hegemony lacked such factories, preferring to procure parts from abroad.

Thus, two key issues needed resolution: securing sufficient funding from Thrawn to address these deficiencies and conducting extensive training. Personnel required constant drills. Any lull in combat operations should be used to enhance individual professionalism.

The general overheard the quiet conversations among his fellow passengers.

All were top-tier officers and enlisted personnel from army units: walker drivers, artillery crews, tank operators, Juggernaut crews—an unusual group, particularly given their small number. They were too few to form a combat-ready unit or to replenish losses. The selection of personnel—one or two from each type of ground unit—seemed too deliberate.

Instructors, perhaps?

Possibly.

But for whom, and for what purpose?

Did Thrawn have his own academy for ground forces training, akin to Carida?

If so, the number of instructors was insufficient for large-scale army training. Moreover, it would be unwise to send the best to teach; that role should fall to those capable of patiently imparting experience through demonstration and practical example.

There was an excellent rule for training subordinates, encapsulated in a succinct phrase forged in the blood of countless fallen soldiers and enlisted personnel: "Detailed explanation, thorough demonstration, and relentless practice." Only with such an approach could civilians—yesterday's farmers, moisture farmers, miners, prospectors—be transformed into cold, calculated professionals who knew their tasks, their purpose, and how to achieve objectives with maximum efficiency.

The general continued to observe hyperspace but concluded that someone was watching him.

After years of service, one developed an almost Jedi-like intuition for such things. When survival depended on quickly identifying the source of targeted fire and assessing its potential damage to you or your equipment, heightened paranoia became a way of life.

Shifting his focus, the general studied the reflection on the inner surface of the viewport.

It took a few seconds to discern the face of a passenger seated in the adjacent row, covertly observing the disabled general in uniform. He did not join the general conversations, which mostly consisted of tales and anecdotes about ground forces' actions on Kai Fel and Liinade III—the only significant ground operations conducted by army and armored units under Grand Admiral Thrawn's command.

Maximilian turned his head sharply to intercept the observer's gaze:

— Any questions, Sergeant?

The group of enlisted personnel, primarily from armored units, who had been quietly conversing, fell silent, glancing nervously at Veers. His identity and return to active duty were known to all in the Dominion's regular army. Such things could not be hidden, and no one wished to incur the general's wrath.

— No, sir, — the sergeant in armored unit attire, marked as a walker crew member, stood as required when addressing a superior. — My apologies; I was trying to confirm if it was you.

Veers instantly recognized the man. Identifying someone glancing sideways in a crowd of similar enlisted personnel was no easy task.

But when he stood alone, unobstructed, identification was straightforward.

— Sergeant Roach, — the corner of the general's mouth twitched slightly. — Approach.

— Yes, sir, — the mechanic-driver responded, closing the distance to his former commander in three short steps.

Maximilian noted the curiosity among the other soldiers, which he quickly quashed with a piercing, evaluative stare. The enlisted men decided it was safer to resume their tales of effortlessly defeating Kuat Drive Yards mercenaries and pirates.

Mechanic-Driver Sergeant Tykus Roach.

— Sit, — once the curiosity waned, Maximilian nodded to his old acquaintance, indicating the seat opposite.

— Yes, sir, — Roach replied, eliciting a grimace of irritation from the general.

— Tykus, as I said after Hoth, in private conversation, ranks and titles are unnecessary, — he reminded.

— I remember, sir, — the mechanic-driver responded in the same calm, even tone. — It's just…

— Nothing has changed, Tykus, — the general anticipated the unspoken question. — No matter my position, whom I serve, or where I am, I'm grateful to you for pulling me from the wreckage of that AT-AT on Hoth.

"And for remaining one of the few who didn't turn away in the years following Endor, when I was branded and discarded like used rags," Maximilian added mentally.

This applied to all who served in Darth Vader's Death Squadron—fleet, army, even stormtroopers. The label of "traitors" marked everyone touched by the Dark Lord of the Sith. It was no surprise that most who remained loyal and did not defect to the New Republic now served under Grand Admiral Thrawn.

The Dominion's leader had even reinstated the 501st Legion, "Vader's Fist." Though now, it was increasingly called "Thrawn's Fist." Not without reason.

— Understood, sir, — the short, broad-shouldered tanker with piercing gray eyes sat before the general. — But we're on duty, and the circumstances…

He nodded subtly toward their companions. Understood—they were straining to discern the connection between a mere sergeant and a major general. That connection would remain invisible while Tykus wore gloves and a jumpsuit.

The burns he sustained pulling Maximilian from the wreckage of a Rebel-downed AT-AT had nearly confined the sergeant to a bed, ending his career as a walker mechanic-driver. Months of recovery were required before he returned to duty. Then came Endor…

And they were all deemed undesirable in the Imperial army.

Nearly six years of "irrelevance" later, maintaining contact, savior and saved found themselves on the same ship, bound for the unknown. Was this part of Grand Admiral Thrawn's design?

— Volunteered? — Maximilian inquired.

— Affirmative, sir, — Tykus replied. — Right after you announced your intent to join the Grand Admiral. Then I heard you were commanding walker training units. I decided to follow—civilian life never suited me. Hard to sleep when my hands itch for an AT-AT's controls.

— It's good you're back, — Veers admitted. When he chose to try his luck with the Dominion's armed forces, he hadn't called any former comrades still in contact. It was their choice.

— Not alone, sir, — Tykus added, lowering his voice. — Everyone who served under you and survived the purges… They're returning to service. Blizzard Force is with you again, General. At least its armored component. I'm less certain about the stormtroopers.

This was undeniably good news, almost too good to quantify.

Blizzard Force—the elite unit that assaulted the Rebel base on Hoth. Yes, they suffered heavy losses, but war spared no one. One had to withstand blows, understand the causes of losses, and ensure they never recurred.

General Veers had trained his subordinates under the Dark Lord's command with exemplary rigor. Each was, without exaggeration, the elite of the elite. Their decision to return to active duty was exceptional. With veterans, training recruits would be far more efficient.

— Do you know where they are? — Veers asked.

— Undergoing counterintelligence vetting, — the sergeant explained. — I was fortunate to clear it quickly. When the Dominion was announced, the volunteer influx was small, so the process was swift. Most of our comrades are still under scrutiny, but we know they'll join the active army soon.

— That's good, — Veers sighed, his cheek twitching in an involuntary, irritating muscle spasm. — Thrawn tasked me with training recruits, so assistance will be welcome.

— Always ready, sir, — Tykus replied. — But… why the rear, not the front lines?

— These, — Maximilian jabbed a finger at his legs, — are the obstacle. I'm no more a walker commander than bantha dung is a rocket. I won't be a burden to any crew.

— You've never been and never will be a burden, sir! — the sergeant declared fervently.

— Enough debate, — Maximilian ordered. He had made his decision. No prosthetics, no implants, no exoskeletons. He was human, not machine. Embedding technology in his body was repulsive. Commanding a walker or unit while swaying in a repulsor chair in an AT-AT's "head" was folly. Rebels knew how to destroy these formidable machines. It wasn't easy, but if a walker was downed again, and someone had to extract him from the wreckage, it could cost lives. On Hoth, his gunner—a skilled, good man—died saving him. Honestly, Maximilian would have preferred they left him to die, saving those who shouldn't have perished for his survival. That wouldn't happen again. — You're still a sergeant?

— Affirmative, sir.

— I'll arrange—

— With all due respect, General, — the mechanic-driver's gray eyes turned to durasteel. — "No favoritism. No patronage. No leniency." Your words. You taught us that. Everything I deserve, I'll earn through patient work, loyal service, and my tank's results.

"Not changed a bit," the general thought, inwardly pleased. A good sign.

— Understood, Sergeant, — Maximilian nodded faintly. — No special treatment.

— Affirmative, sir, — a genuine smile broke through the mechanic-driver's stern face. — The Dominion's enemies will break into a cold sweat when your trainees advance their machines toward their positions.

— Precisely, Sergeant, — Veers nodded in agreement.

But his thoughts were elsewhere.

The AT-AT was developed by Kuat Drive Yards, though produced not only there but also on planets like Carida, Balderona, and Antivi. Numerous variants existed, including those for specific environments: snow, desert, oceans…

Thrawn had none of these. Only "walkers"—standard models, and not many, enough for perhaps ten assault corps at most.

If the Grand Admiral couldn't secure a factory for this equipment and instead relied on saturating the regular army with thirty-year-old "war echoes," it was futile. There was no need to train numerous recruits to operate AT-ATs if the machines were scarce.

That, however, was the Grand Admiral's concern. Veers had already outlined his vision for the army: mandatory conscription for men of a certain age (women on a voluntary basis), rigorous training, and assignment to planetary defense forces. The most distinguished could sign contracts for regular army service, engaging in combat operations.

The Dominion's starfleet followed a similar model: recruits and volunteers served in units patrolling star systems or escorting convoys, while only those proving professional competence joined active fleet ships.

This approach saved credits—regular army personnel earned higher salaries than conscripts or rear units—while allowing "field condition" training to prepare replacements for battlefield losses.

Unfortunately, the regular army had fewer seasoned veterans. Perhaps this explained Thrawn's focus on space battles over ground operations?

The Empire had operated similarly, except salaries were significantly lower than those the Dominion paid its regular forces. Conscripts received meager pay compared to the regular army, incentivizing them to prove their worth and become true warriors.

In the Imperial armed forces, only officers received salaries remotely comparable to those of the Dominion's regular troops. Enlisted soldiers, sailors, and sergeants—mostly conscripts—received mere credits, perhaps ten a month. The Admiralty and ground command believed simple soldiers needed no pay, as they were fully state-supported.

Thrawn, it seemed, thought otherwise.

His prerogative.

A man in fleet uniform appeared in the aisle, swiftly approaching Maximilian's mag-locked repulsor chair.

— General Veers, sir, — he saluted. — The ship's commander instructed me to inform you we're arriving at the designated coordinates. Access codes have been exchanged. The receiving party sent you a personal greeting.

— From whom? — Veers frowned.

— Unsigned and without identifier, sir, — the co-pilot admitted. — Only a note that you'll be met at the airlock.

— Understood, Lieutenant, — the general replied. — Dismissed.

As the co-pilot retreated, the general chuckled.

— Curiouser and curiouser, — he remarked, glancing at the sergeant. — First, Thrawn assigns me to training units, then sends me to some facility for armored unit preparation, and now it turns out this training site isn't even a planet.

— Sir? — the mechanic-driver frowned.

— I'll be met at the "docking airlock," — Veers explained. — Not a landing pad. We're headed to a ship or station.

The mechanic-driver scowled:

— The other guys, — he nodded toward their companions, — like me, were told we'd contribute to training and equipping the Dominion's armored forces.

— Then we're here for one purpose, — the major general concluded. — To train new specialists for ground equipment.

— Training ground equipment crews in space is inefficient, — Tykus ventured cautiously, mindful not to insult the command that gave him a chance to return to the army and his passion. — Unless we're arriving at a transfer station…

— We'll find out soon, Sergeant, — Maximilian concluded.

They discussed tactics and crew training until a short signal in the passenger compartment announced the Lambda's imminent exit from hyperspace.

It would be intriguing to learn their destination.

The general activated his code cylinder, connecting his personal datapad to the shuttle's systems to view the scene ahead.

Upon seeing the object their Lambda approached, Major General Veers merely snorted.

— One thing's certain: our destination is definitely not a space station.

— Sir? — Tykus looked at his commander expectantly.

No point hiding what would be revealed in minutes.

He handed the datapad to his subordinate.

Though from the ground forces and hailing from a technologically modest world near Wild Space, the mechanic-driver could identify…

— An Acclamator-class assault cruiser? — Tykus tore his gaze from the datapad's screen. — Sir, are we being reassigned to space infantry?

— Unlikely, Sergeant, — Veers admitted. — But I'm certain this is no standard cruiser. We'll wait for my greeter to clarify the situation.

***

— Grand Admiral, — it was becoming routine: Pellaeon reporting the completion of another phase of the plan. — Squadron commanders confirm all units have arrived at the rendezvous point. The Chimaera will join them in thirty minutes.

— Excellent work, Captain, — I replied. — Inform the Star Destroyer commanders that the briefing will commence in two hours. I expect detailed intelligence and technical status reports on their ships.

— It will be done, — the commander of my flagship Star Destroyer responded. He stood beside me, relaying the order via comlink. Judging by the enthusiastic tone of the reply, Lieutenant Tschel still served his commander eagerly. A solid officer. If he didn't falter, he could become a capable starship commander with proper preparation.

He would need testing for independent command. Not now—in time.

— Has Captain Tiberos reached the Karthakk system? — I inquired.

— Affirmative, sir, — Pellaeon confirmed. — Unloading of production cycle equipment has begun. Chief Engineer Reyes reports our officers delivered data on Scimitar assault bombers. Technical teams have started upgrading equipment. By month's end, the production cycle will launch, and bombers will enter production.

— Outstanding, — I nodded faintly, observing the ysalamiri. For variety, it was not dozing but eating in its cage. — Do our people on the planet report anything on Captain Tiberos's interactions with Aurra Sing or Captain Nym?

— No, sir. Captain Tiberos is occupied with repairs on the Black Pearl and hasn't encountered them.

— Good, — I said. — Have our agents continue monitoring them. Now, a more pressing matter, Captain. The Mere pirate and his cloaked ship. Have we learned more?

— Not much, sir, — Pellaeon admitted. — Most Mere recruited into our service are young and can't recall or name the individual who distinguished themselves in the Trade Federation conflict in the Karthakk system.

— Or, — I noted, — they simply don't wish to speak.

— That's possible, sir, — the Chimaera's commander agreed.

— Most likely, — I said. — When a kinsman's name is passed down, you hear it at least once or twice. The Mere don't trust us, nothing more. They know the name but won't share it.

— Shall I order stormtroopers to begin occupation?

— A prototype cloaking device of unknown design, while valuable, isn't worth losing potential subordinates over, — I replied.

But action was necessary. Every cloaking system was unique.

Our hybridium-based technology was imperfect—active cloaking fields blocked all signals. We partially mitigated this with external relays extended beyond the field, connected by cables for near-instantaneous signal and targeting data transmission.

We successfully employed this method during the Battle of Honoghr against General Solo's fleet.

But this workaround suited only stationary objects, like Golan stations. Using it on a moving cloaked object made it easily detectable due to the relay's movement, risking the starship's destruction. Moreover, the fiber-optic relay was unreliable in motion, and equipping ships with active antennae was foolish, as they invariably revealed the ship's position. Thus, we used costly probe droids with shielded communication systems as relays.

Acquiring new cloaking technology could advance our efforts. The concept of "invisible ships" wasn't novel in this galaxy… Yet I remained troubled by the fact that, in known events, Imperial commanders acquired a cloaked Executor-class Super Star Destroyer years later, not reliant on hybridium.

— Has Captain Steben completed his work on Yalara? — I asked.

— Affirmative, sir, — Pellaeon replied. — Technicians have arrived and are inspecting the cloaking device. A contingent will soon establish a permanent garrison.

Excellent. Another base, far from prying eyes.

— Ensure Yalara receives the necessary technical support and defenses, Captain, — I instructed. — Per my exact specifications.

— It will be done, Grand Admiral, — Pellaeon responded.

Captain, captain, captain… Something must be done about subordinate career progression. While Shohashi displayed remarkable tactical creativity, other Star Destroyer commanders… I hadn't "felt" them. They were dutiful, ready to execute orders, but showed minimal initiative.

Captain Mor might be a candidate for promotion—his tactical analyses held some rational merit, though still nascent. I'd provided opportunities for independent growth, so it was up to them now.

The battle for the Oplovis sector lay ahead. Extraneous thoughts could wait.

— Thank you for the Karthakk system report, Captain, — I said, glancing at my personal datapad on the desk. — You may return to your duties.

— Affirmative, sir, — the man replied, heading for the exit.

As the door closed, I leaned back in my chair. With a keystroke, I summoned a detailed hologram of the Ketaris system. A fortress world, stronghold of the Republic's understrength sector fleet, too small to hold without support.

But the planet was well-defended… A direct assault wouldn't suffice…

That was lyrical.

Closing my eyes, I mentally reviewed each phase of my plan.

One step at a time, one squadron's actions, then another's…

***

— Well, — "Pent" remarked as the cabin door hissed shut behind him, the space converted by fleet special forces into a makeshift cell. — So much for stealing a ship and slicing Kuat's network…

— Keep your mouth shut, — Rederick advised, flopping onto the bunk and staring at the ceiling. — Don't open it until I say.

— Uh-huh, — the slicer sulked, sitting on the adjacent bunk. — You know, I figured the alarm probably wasn't my fault.

— Really? — the scout glanced at him. — And what's your reasoning?

— I couldn't have missed anything, — the blue-haired kid declared confidently. — There was no undetected security. Yes, Kuat Drive Yards' internal systems are well-protected, but it's Imperial-grade, nothing extraordinary.

— Then those guys definitely didn't slip up, — Rederick stated. — Fleet special forces don't make mistakes like that. They don't… have accidents…

The scout fell silent, realizing the kid might be right. No accidents.

— They did it on purpose, — "Pent" said. — When I cracked the hangar door lock, I saw someone had already tampered with it. They did it for the same reason we came—Kuat's administrative computers aren't connected to the HoloNet. It's a closed network, for insiders only. Looks like they triggered a cybersecurity breach elsewhere on the station to dig where they wanted undisturbed.

— Then they didn't need that Raider, — Rederick said firmly. — They'd have taken it during the alarm. Since no one fired on us before we jumped to hyperspace, they likely had Kuat access codes.

— Seems like it, — "Pent" concluded. He paused. — Who are they, anyway?

— Fleet special forces, — Rederick explained.

— Why'd they say they're from the Imperial Starfleet?

— Because they're show-offs, — Rederick scoffed. — "Imperial Starfleet" is the official name of the Galactic Empire's armadas, a direct translation from High Galactic. Post-Endor, it's rarely used in the armed forces—too much hassle for pompous language.

— So what's the issue? — the slicer blinked. — You're fleet too…

A genius slicer, yet logic eluded him…

— Two problems, — Rederick said. — First, we're Dominion. They identified as Imperial Starfleet, meaning they serve one of the Imperial Remnants. I have strict orders to avoid contact with them and ensure they don't learn about our mission.

Hence why they operated as a duo.

The young scout's arrogance, fueled by Grand Admiral Thrawn's victories, had clouded his judgment, forgetting those were Thrawn's triumphs, not his. What worked against the New Republic failed elsewhere.

A pity.

The data "Pent" extracted was for Thrawn alone.

Rederick turned to reassess the kid.

Average build, scrawny… All the hallmarks of a slicer who'd never seen beyond code. If it came to choosing—causing greater harm to the Dominion by failing and letting "Pent" defect, or silencing him—the choice was grim but real.

Because the special forces would crack the chips eventually. They'd see the stolen schematics and notes.

And voilà… Mines Kuat hadn't produced since losing Rothana, yet guarded jealously, would become public. At least among Imperials. If they tried hard, they might even get the mine control codes…

A failure, no matter how he spun it.

The question was: who did these operatives serve?

By the Hutts, what a mess… Had it been any other agency, negotiation might've been possible. Even Ubiqtorate operatives could be reasoned with—their leadership was unhinged, but field agents were communicative. Not all, but common ground was possible…

Not with fleet special forces…

— You mentioned two reasons, — "Pent" prompted. — You only named one.

— The second is that I screwed up, — Rederick said bitterly. — Fleet special forces never liked fleet intelligence. They saw us as redundant, an extension of themselves. We performed similar tasks, but we focused on covert missions, while they handled reconnaissance, sabotage, and more. A conflict of interests.

A third issue existed: their commander, whose name meant nothing to Rederick, knew him. Rank, name… That wasn't improvised or recalled from a fleeting encounter. This was someone who knew him well.

Makeno… Makeno…

Digging through his memory, Rederick was certain the name was unfamiliar. So was the man's face. He'd never seen any of them before!

Though, fleet special forces rarely flaunted their identities.

Such was their work.

This Imperial Starfleet subunit predated the Battle of Yavin.

An experimental joint program between fleet command and Ubiqtorate, aimed at creating rapid-response forces for reconnaissance and sabotage operations. Essentially, the fleet needed versatile military intelligence. With the galaxy ablaze with Rebel cells, this made sense. The Emperor ordered the fleet and army to crush insurgents. Ships couldn't aimlessly patrol every cry of "Rebels here!" So "specialists"—fleet special forces squads—were deployed.

Alongside "grubbies"—fleet intelligence, created ostensibly for operational efficiency. Everyone knew the truth: the Admiralty wanted to bypass the Imperial army and stormtrooper corps during special operations. Above all, they dreamed of ditching Imperial Intelligence and counterintelligence, which often targeted ship crews alongside Rebels. Joint missions rarely ended without arrests.

Naturally, no one saw the detained again.

Thus, the new subunit spearheaded nearly all operations, saving vast resources for tasks a small squad of five to ten could handle.

Fleet special forces trained on a planet coded D8-Red, somewhere in the Core Worlds. Its location was a closely guarded secret. Rumors claimed its training rivaled the Imperial Guard's. Likely exaggerated…

Operatives underwent intensive training: hand-to-hand combat, field camouflage, piloting most known air and ground vehicles, and proficiency with all small arms. They also learned reconnaissance and counterintelligence basics. This last point was a sore spot for both intelligence and special forces, seen as a point of contention. Why have two units for similar tasks?

Senior officers knew someone wanted a prestigious post, hence the overlapping units. This wasn't a unique case of Imperial bureaucratic folly.

Perhaps someone laundered credits through these new units. Likely in special forces.

If their supply was adequate, why was their gear so poor?

They wore Imperial army infantry armor and standard stormtrooper helmets. Their primary weapon was the E-11 blaster rifle—stormtrooper standard. Pistols and grenades completed their kit. No specialized weapons were consistently observed. Rare gear, like sniper rifles or Verpine shotguns, was procured at operatives' expense.

Rederick recalled a laughably small number trained—hundreds, perhaps. It started promisingly, but commanders struggled to utilize these specialists.

Rebels were hunted using traditional fleet operations with scouts, while "specialists" reinforced regular units.

They deployed to planets during major operations alongside stormtroopers or fleet infantry (misnamed "marines"). They served as assault teams capturing strategic targets and fortifications.

Sometimes, they performed their intended role: infiltrating enemy planets before main forces arrived, establishing agent networks, conducting sabotage, and marking key targets.

Worst of all, they were used as guards for critical sites. Fleet intelligence mocked them for squads babysitting the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, neutralizing curious onlookers—a task regular stormtroopers could handle, but someone insisted on special forces.

The program's expansion halted after an unexplained destruction of a TIE fighter factory orbiting Nar Shaddaa, guarded by reinforced special forces. Later, they failed again when an Imperial Star Destroyer, for unclear reasons, crashed on Raxus Prime.

This encounter between "specialists" and "grubbies" wouldn't be simple.

Not only did they serve different masters, but their rival units harbored mutual animosity…

— Rederick, — "Pent" called. — What do we do?

— Meaning? — the scout asked, not surprised "Pent" knew his real name, but by the question. Seriously, what could they do in a "guest cabin"? It was a cell, just euphemistically named, designed to prevent escape.

— They took us for a reason, — the kid said. — Wouldn't it be smarter to… escape?

— Sure, — Rederick, unlike his companion, knew Imperial fleet cells' effectiveness. — Start digging a tunnel. I'll nap, then join you.

— Right, got it… Where do I dig?

This day would indeed be very long…

***

When the docking airlock's hatches parted, Major General Freja Covell did something he hadn't in years.

— General on deck! — he barked, a phrase carrying weight for the stormtrooper contingent forming an honor guard of two squads.

Nearly twenty soldiers in gleaming white armor raised their weapons in a "present arms" salute, forming two perfectly aligned rows (measurable by rangefinder) to welcome the return of an Imperial armed forces legend.

Major General Veers's repulsor chair paused as it crossed the docking bay threshold.

The stern face of the veteran mentor swept over the ranks of "snow" stormtroopers. He undoubtedly recognized their gear and the emblem on their shoulder pauldrons: a golden-green "Imperial" gear, the Dominion's crest.

At its center, a white AT-AT frozen mid-stride.

The emblem of Blizzard Force.

The elite subunit of the 501st stormtrooper corps, in which Major General Veers fought his last battle before his injury. After which he was "written off" as dead weight.

"Snow" stormtroopers of Blizzard Force.

The brown eyes of the aging man scanned the orderly ranks. Yes, General, each was a "snow" stormtrooper. Each was part of the reconstituted Blizzard Force. These were the men you served alongside for years.

Freja had spent weeks tracking down those he could reach, returning the elite to serve one who valued the Imperial legacy, refusing to brand soldiers for their commanders' actions.

They were few—barely over a company—but enough to revive Blizzard Force, especially with those arriving on this shuttle.

The antigrav chair brought Major General Veers closer to his former student, equal in rank.

Covell met his mentor's gaze. As befitting one he deeply respected, he waited for Veers to extend his right hand for a handshake.

The officers and enlisted personnel crowding the deck entrance silently glanced around, trying to grasp the occasion, its recipient, and how to act.

They weren't ready yet.

Achieve what General Veers had for the homeland, and you'd be greeted by those whose lives you saved through your mentorship and training.

One day, each arrival aboard this Acclamator might become a legend like Maximilian Veers was to senior officers. Perhaps their peers would include sentients as devoted and respectful, organizing such a reception.

— Major General Covell, — the legendary commander greeted his former student in a clear, steady voice.

— Major General Veers, — the diligent student echoed.

Though equal in rank, though Covell's command bars came later, though his position was arguably higher, beyond rigid protocol and deference lay simple humanity toward an ally and mentor, which should always endure.

Enemies were another matter.

Here, aboard this starship, were only friends and allies.

Thoroughly vetted by intelligence, counterintelligence, time, and mutual support.

— Retrained as a ship commander, Freja? — the mentor asked with a smirk.

— Negative, sir, — the greeter couldn't contain his joy, a rare smile crossing his lips. — I'll explain over a hot drink in my quarters, if you don't mind.

— Speak freely, Freja, — Veers said. Easy for him to say. Standing beside a legend of armored forces, the man who raised you from cadet, instilled a love for machinery, and taught you to fight so enemies fled at your approach, your shoulders squared, your back straightened, and your mind burned to match the example before you… After so many years, General Veers had returned…

— Thank you… sir, — Covell couldn't overcome himself.

The general before him merely chuckled.

— I assume the reception is concluded, General Covell? — he asked. — Time to execute the task Grand Admiral Thrawn assigned to me and the instructors, whatever it may be.

— Affirmative, sir, — Freja nodded. Yes, Veers's expression showed he appreciated the welcome, but he hadn't fully grasped… — One moment. May I request you execute the command "About face!"?

Without a word, the legend pivoted his repulsor chair.

— Eyes center! — Covell barked.

Eighteen helmets turned in unison, dark visor lenses locking onto the two men of equal rank. — Helmets off!

Right hands gripped weapons pressed to chest plates, while left arms rose with astonishing synchronicity, touching the helmets' lower edges, which slid upward in one fluid motion.

In an instant, eighteen helmets rested in the stormtroopers' hands.

Freja watched as Veers leaned forward, his back straightening. He scrutinized the soldiers, his gaze moving from one stern yet joyful face to another.

Faces that, despite years and graying cropped hair, were identical.

Blizzard Force was part of the 501st Legion.

After the Kaminoan uprising, only there remained clones of the Grand Army of the Republic.

Clones of Jango Fett.

Veers inhaled sharply, turning to Covell.

Freja snapped his heels together and saluted, as per regulation.

— Welcome home, General Veers, — he declared loudly. — We've awaited your return for a long time, sir. A very long time.

They locked eyes. Teacher and student. Former subordinate and former commander.

Two generals.

Neither would admit the tears of joy in the other's eyes.

Major General Veers had lost one family in the past.

But his second hadn't forgotten him.

Blizzard Force believed and waited for one of their commanders to return and lead them in another glorious battle.

And now he had. Their last commander, Major General Maximilian Veers.

This time—for good.

***

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