The New Jedi Order: A Vision of Confluence

Imperial Entanglements

VII: Rarest Treasures

The damutek ships settled with stately grace between the alien trees. A soft sussurus of gravitational shears rippled leaves and limbs as the enormous craft delicately made landfall. Countless tonnes of coral, flesh and hungry biot shifted and spread outward as each ship gently, slowly unfurled. Nen Yim watched with rare awe. To be inside the living ships was natural - to see them from without, to see the fullness of their majesty - was something else entirely.

And the world the ships nibbled at! Nen Yim turned in place, arms lifted just slightly, enough for propriety but far from the widespread embrace that she wanted to wrap around the world. A moon, maybe, but a world, a live world, a living world.

The air was sharp and pungent, filled with such a melange that even her sinusal implants couldn’t catalogue them all. She scented irregular sesquiterpenoids, loamy and aromatic. Hints of dimethyl sulfides that were rounded and chewy and spoke of brine-water. Anaerobic-birthed hydrogen sulfides, sharp lipid-decay. She inhaled deeply, eyes heavy-lidded as living scents washed through her senses in wave after wave.

She had names for them all, spooled out into her forebrain from the microscopic tasting polyps of the keryid norosh that crouched behind her nose. But she had no words for them. There was a whiff on the breeze that reminded her of the bitter outflow beneath the mernip breeding pools. Here was a hint of the loamy exhalations of the maw luur - the only breeze Nen Yim had ever known until today. She sloppily applied the dull, colorless sensations of life in a worldship and all of them were hollow.

A world!

A living world!

She knelt gently, her robe pooling between her bare feet. She scraped a handful of muddy, saturated soil between her fingers. Kneading it. Feeling it. It was slick and threaded with tendrils of plantlife, it was imprecise and teeming with pointless bacteria and it was unguided and it was beautiful. Behind her impassive face, Nen Yim shrieked with glee. She swallowed bubbling laughter and kept solidly in mind the demeanour expected of an Adept of her station.

But this was the rawness of creation! Yun-Yuuzhan’s gift, wonderful and myriad and as wildly unkempt as the moments after the Father clove apart his body to create all cosmos. Rawness untouched by the gardening hand of the Yuuzhan Vong, impregnated with potential so thick she could taste it as saccharides dissolving on the tongue.

“Ah, this would be your first time on a true world.”

Nen Yim rose, expecting another of the adepts daring to intrude on her moment of revelation, a biting retort sharpening her tongue-

To be held, as she curled the tendrils of her headdress into genuflection and cast her eyes away from her master, Mezhaan Kwaad.

Nen Yim prostrated, secretly pleased to dirty her robe in the mud.

“You may rise, Adept, and turn your eyes to me.” There was mirth in Mezhan Kwaad’s tone.

Her Master was a female past the final edge of youth, but barely. Lean and whip-thin, but bearing still the shape of a mature female despite her elevation. It would not last, of course - affectations of sex were quite beyond the Masters, for whom the last and greatest form of Shaping were forever forbidden. Instead, Mezhaan Kwaad’s form spoke to the rapidity of her ascension and the keenness of her mind. To be a Master at such an age and with so few marks of elevation proved that Nen Yim’s Master was a rare specimen indeed.

Her broad and high cheekboned face bore symmetrical tattoos of concentric, spoked circles, interwoven with organic swirls of crimson and azure. Her forehead bore the three ridged scars of Kwaad, the only visible scars on the Master. Like all Shapers, like Nen Yim, Mezhaan Kwaad bore the marks of her sacrifices more subtly and discreet. Only her hand, eight-fingered, mattered as evidence to the eyes. The hand of a Master could not be mistaken.

“And confirm my suspicions, Adept. Rare is it that a Master makes observation without reason.”

“Yes, Master. I have never been graced to know a world beyond our worldships.”

Mezhaan hummed approvingly, gliding closer and peering out to the horizon and the settling damuteks.

“Tell me your impressions, then.”

Nen Yim inhaled a deep, delicious breath.

“This storm was unnatural,” she began, gesturing toward splintered boles and heaps of shattered branches, toward glaring gaps in the jungle canopy where ancient and towering trees had toppled. Toward the sounds of a seething, roaring river that swelled far beyond its banks. “If weather patterns of this intensity commonly struck, there would be evidence of flooding and the canopy would be lower and less dense. Few trees would be able to reach the heights we see.”

Mezhaan did not interrupt.

“Which speaks to me of the strangeness of this world. I am used to our own worldships, which are planned. Everything has a purpose, Master. The maw luur, the endocrine clusters, the retcham forceps and rikyam. Everything is apportioned out for our journey. This…this would be a disaster. This would be like a spasm of the axial musculature that ruptures a tendril of a worldship. But here, this is a living world. A storm is…just a storm. Life goes on. It’s so wild and so undirected!”

“True enough. You overthink things, Adept. We are atop a high plateau. The elevation would never allow a monsoon’s presence, not at full strength. You need not study the jungle nor the patterns of rivers when a single, simple observation suffices. Still. I do not punish thoroughness. The wildness of this world is remarkable indeed.”

“None of it serves us-”

Mezhaan clicked her teeth and cut Nen Yim off.

“Incorrect. All things serve the Yuuzhan Vong. You know this.”

Nen Yim cast her eyes down, curling her headdress tendrils tight.

“Yes, Master. I misspoke. I mean only - we have not shaped it.”

“Better. All life and all space serves the Yuuzhan Vong. There is merely that which we have touched and that which we have not yet been guided to by the Gods. Remember this, Adept. The Gods hide nothing, but only delay us to the timetable of their choosing.”

“As you say, Master.”

“Come along. Survey our home with me.”

Mezhaan Kwaad led Nen Yim along, the Master a pace ahead, as was appropriate. She spoke of many things, telling Nen Yim of the processes of the damutek in much greater depth than the teachings of an Adept might know. The deep-digging roots would plunge deep, exuding fierce acids to render bedrock into sludge. Burrowing solk-wath sought out aquifers to nurse from. Each damutek was to have a purpose and Mezhaan Kwaad indicated the one that would be their laboratory.

Warriors moved this way and that in small groups, mindbent at their heels. Cadres of slaves, overseen by bare-chested Workers broke ground with stiffened spade-rays. Tsik-vai drifted overhead and a small nursery field for coralskippers spread around one of the damuteks.

A tall warrior loped toward them. He was rangy and tall, corded with muscle and wore vonduun bred in the colors of Carr.

“Master Shaper,” he spoke, once he was near enough.

“Commander Harmae.”

Without his helmet, Harmae’s dark eyes were piercing, long hair pulled up into a tall stalk and plume that waved in the breeze. Mezhaan Kwaad folded her arms, lifting her chin. Nen Yim shrank a little closer to her Master, to borrow a measure of security.

“Where is my test subject?”

Harmae sneered, pulling at tattooed lips. Nen Yim caught the shape of a single long fang of coral.

“Restrained. Know you are fortunate, Shaper, that my loyalty to my Supreme Commander is unwavering. Had it been your order to take Jeedai alive, I would have kindly reminded you of your place.”

“Your devotion does you credit,” Mezhan Kwaad retorted and Nen Yim blushed at how baldly fake her Master’s tone was. One did not speak to a Warrior in such a way!

Yet, she was an Adept. An Adept to a Master - beyond reproach from even an elevated of most other castes. It would take time to remember that.

Harmae snorted.

“This Jeedai slew two of my warriors despite being enwrapped by a capture tendril. She blinded a third. Jeedai are not to be trifled with, as even the Warmaster advises.”

“Then I will sacrifice to the Slayer in thanks for the bravery of your warriors. How is the Jeedai restrained?”

Mezhan Kwaad gestured to Nen Yim, continuing her walk. Harmae fell in beside the Master Shaper, his bulk at odds with the Master’s lithe shape.

“By the blessing of senselessness. The Jeedai dreams the poison dream.”

“My subject is to be unharmed.”

The warrior laughed.

“Inform the Jeedai of your demands. The infidel will live with broken ribs. You have your prize, Master Shaper. The Gods sneer at the greedy. Expect delivery to your damutek by nightfall.”

Having said his piece, Commander Harmae split away, barking orders out to a nearby cluster of Warriors who snapped to attention. Mezhan Kwaad watching the commander go, her headdress knotting and writhing.

“Observe, Adept, the vaunted unity of the Chosen. We came to a world with three dozen Jeedai and they deliver but one. A child that would barely be from the creche. And they claim that to demand the minimum of success is greed.” Mezhan Kwaad sniffed, wrinkling her nose. “Be glad you are a Shaper, Nen Yim. We do not suffer fools in our Caste.”

“As you say, Master,” Nen Yim agreed. For different reasons, but all the same, she thanked Yun-ne’Shel daily for her blessing. She looked down at her hand, turning over the flesh and blood she was born with. If she just focused, a little, she imagined eight fingers instead of five and the means to change the world at her fingertips. Nen Yim smiled a private smile, behind her Master, as she followed her through the high jungle plateau of Yavin 4.

From Guilliman’s own chambers, they watched the arrivals flicker into reality. Roboute had seen ‘hyperspace’ jumps before, both arrival and departure, but the difference between the smearing flicker of pseudomotion that resolved into a languidly cruising starship was stark indeed compared to the wrathful emergence from the Warp he knew better. Beside him, in newly repainted plate, stood Phratus Auguston, arms folded across his broad chest and perpetual scowl twisting his blunt features. Marius Gage, to the Primarch’s right, bore the solid gold right pauldron of the Praetorium. Ever present, the Primarch’s shadow loomed massive and implacable in flawless Cataphractii.

Together they witnessed the first arrival: a pale white-grey triangle that whickered into existence, settling into a smooth cruiser on ion efflux, matching the pace of Macragge’s Honour. Another flicked into existence, then a third, then a fourth. He knew not which was which, but knew the names of all four. Superior, Right to Rule, Relentless and Master Stroke. Imperial Star Destroyers, a more ironic name he could not imagine.

The four coasted in distant formation with the Honour for a long few seconds, showcasing a glaringly obvious hole in their formation.

Filled in by the immense arrowhead shape of the final arrival. Blue-grey in tone, darker than the bright Star Destroyers, Dominion ate a chunk of the starfield with its mass. The rather prosaically titled ‘Super’ Star Destroyer was not unimpressive.

Phratus grunted. His armor was newly daubed in the colors of the Astartes Aggressor, First Battalion Founded of the Legiones Ultramarine. His plastron was bisected, the right side classic Ultramarine blue, the left side a steely blue. Likewise, his crested helmet, mag-clamped to his hip, bore the same bisected color. Each gauntlet to the elbow was pure black. His right pauldron bore an Ultramarine blue field, but the rest of his plate was the same steel-blue as his bisected plastron and helm. The chosen mark of the First Battalion shone crisp and white: an Ultima grasped in the center by a gauntleted fist.

Changes were afoot in the 4711th and not all were pleased by them.

‘I submit again that we are better served capturing the dreadnought and being done with it.’

Guilliman made a noise deep in his throat that was neither agreement nor negation. This was not a new debate.

‘The Remnant wastes its waning strength. They have no friends and fewer allies. Unleash the First, my Primarch, and we’ll deliver this ‘Dominion’ for better use.’

‘An aptly chosen name for your Battalion,’ Gage observed.

Phratus’ scowl deepend and he turned on the Master Primus.

Guilliman raised a hand.

‘Peace. Marius, please try not to bait Phratus. And Phratus, you need not always bite.’ Amusement rolled from the Chapter Master.

The Imperial Remnant had reached out, first tentatively and unofficially, and then with a strong and formal overture. The action at Fondor, the destruction of Yadraig and then the Senate address and Treaty of Fundamental Iron had been an avalanche that couldn’t be held back. Whatever internal politics that had led to the Remnant dragging their feet over welcoming a new ‘neighbor’, it must have evaporated in short order. From Gilad Pellaeon himself, a request and desire for discourse, offered at the convenience of the Exiled Imperium. With the gracious best wishes to the Lord Consul.

There was no theoretical to rejecting the offer. At best, an ally in a strategically beneficial location of the galaxy. At worst, alienating a rump state with little, if anything, to offer. Macragge’s Honour had not translated since the flight from Calth and her warp engines were due for a cycle. The reopened scars in her flanks, torn anew by Vong biot and plasma, once again sported unpainted sheets of adamantium. Internally, the aliens had wreaked considerable damage to internal spaces, but the limits of their incursion had not pressed too deeply into the more sensitive and critical locales.

All the same, Honour was still wounded, never having recovered even originally from Calth. Now, some biots still lurked in her bilges, diligently sought by hunter-killer servictors and CATs. Teams of armsmen carrying stubbers chased bounties, awarded for each every reptoid or slithering biot recovered and presented. Even today, Magi worked to restore corridors, rebuild bulkheads and certify systems as operable and placated. Though Roboute’s schedule remained as overflowing as ever, the installed holonet suites allowed realtime remote availability for any potential issue. More besides, showing the Honour beyond the orbit of Eboracum was a powerful statement after the breaking of the moon and the boarding action ordered by Malik Carr.

Once again: the devices were worth their weight in auramite, even if some of the Magi grumbled and ground metallic teeth.

Pellaeon offered to host aboard Dominion - a statement of several meanings. To host is a particular position of power and authority, but to accept and go willingly into the fastness of another is a statement of strength. Guilliman accepted without equivocation. He had not been aboard a warship of this Galaxy, despite several now serving with the 4711th. He had not the time.

Drakus Gorod, ever his shadow, followed Guilliman to his armored Stormbird, accompanied as well by Auguston. Gage remained behind, in command of the Honour. Aides and scribes of the newly formed Adaptus Legatus filled in, each suitably cowed by the transhuman presence of a Primarch and his Astartes. Noskaur remained on Coruscant, continuing legal discussion over the status of Eboracum. Even should the old Iterator been present, Guilliman still would have opted to conduct this conference in person.

Call it indulgent, but stepping before the Republican Senate had stirred old nostalgia in him.

From the bridge of Dominion, they watched and waited for the Primarch’s shuttle. Magnified and expanded for easy viewing, the counterpart star dreadnought dominated the bridge display. Macragge’s Honour, it was called, and it was a monster. Pellaeon remembered Eclipse, and even the bulk of that ship was ah, eclipsed, by the sheer mass and presence of this leviathan. Twenty-six kilometers in length, larger than any dreadnought Gilad knew of. Even the Mon Calamari Viscount class could fit three or four of their mass into that monster.

The length of it was painted, painted, a rich oceanic blue and liberally gilt with gold. Ornamentation was everywhere Gilad looked. It was a gaudy piece of art as much as a battleship and he reflexively disliked it. Already he had reservations about dreadnoughts, remembering the bitter lesson of Executor at Endor when the ill-fated ship took down countless brilliant officers with her. They reminded him of the worst aspects of the Empire, under Palpatine, even if their role had been proven before and would be again.

He couldn’t very well forget the Battle of Orinda.

“Incredible,” Sarreti breathed. “That’s the ship that destroyed their moon.”

“Potent,” Miat Temm agreed. She and Arat Nalgol made the fourth of their small group. Temm was his aide of some years, a professional and efficient woman, contrasting to Nalgol’s subtle insouciance.

“And for all that, they’ve still been squatting in that same star system.” Nalgol drawled.

“Their faster-than-light works differently than hyperspace. Their task force made it to Fondor without issue, all the same.”

Nalgol acknowledged Sarreti’s point with a dip of his shoulder.

“I’ve heard the Jedi are to thank for that.”

“Maybe so,” Temm countered, “but they’re still getting around.”

It was useful to keep in mind the surprising friendship already forged between the Jedi and the Exiles. The New Republic seemed to originally wish to hold them at arm’s length, but Skywalker’s Jedi had leapt in with both feet. Not all was sunshine in the land of the Jedi, according to rumors, yet that wouldn’t shift the import of the leader of the Order going on missions and entrusting his nephew to the Imperials.

For the New Republic itself, they made a solid case, Gilad had to admit, as to why they were worth working with. Why it would be a problem for the Exiles if the Republic collapsed. No matter Gilad’s feeling about the government on Coruscant, he was realistic enough to know that if the New Republic fell, the rest of the galaxy would shortly thereafter.

Not for any grand strength of the New Republic, granted. But merely because by virtue of being the only polity that could truly tangle up the Yuuzhan Vong for any period. As long as the New Republic stood, even as plagued by infighting and inefficiencies as it was, it was impossible for the Vong to ignore.

And it served as a shield for those smaller polities, the ones that had teeth enough to pain the Vong, but not enough to stop them. By Gilad’s estimation, the only reason the Vong only poked and prodded at the Remnant was because they knew to take it would bleed them of useful resources needed to encircle and besiege the Core. If the force that hit Fondor was any indicator of the average Vong armada…

Intel analysis indicated it wasn’t likely the case. Fondor was considered to represent several task forces brought together for the assault and that it wasn’t as if the Vong could produce another half dozen flotillas of the same size at whim. A small peace of mind, but not one to entirely trust.

Nalgol eyed the distant dreadnought. A veteran officer, part of the whole Caamasi Affair, he was also a representative for the Kuati expat world of Jaemus. He had an eye for starships as much as any other from that world.

“Kuat’s making ships for them now.”

“And others,” Sarreti reminded. “Part of Shesh’s speech was that they’d also sell to interested buyers who would fight the Vong.”

“Jaemus isn’t any closer, but Jaemus also doesn’t have to play the games of the Families. I wonder how ironclad that ‘Treaty’ is.”

“We don’t have the wording, but it appears extensive.” Miat Temm shrugged. “Shesh is Kuati, it’s probably solid.” Nalgol sneered, but didn’t correct her.

“It’s joint operations we’re hoping for,” Pellaeon chided.

“Like Ithor,” Nalgol muttered.

“Yes, Arat. Like Ithor. Ithor was tragic but Ithor also saw the head of a Vong Domain killed, for all that might matter, and a grand cruiser destroyed.”

“The Exiles killed one over Fondor without burning a world.”

Pellaeon fixed Nalgol with a flat stare until the man held up his hands.

“Fine, fine.”

“You’re only supporting the benefits of joint operations. Dominion is barely out of refits. This is a shakedown cruise as much as anything else.” Sarreti gestured toward the massive vessel in the distance. “If that thing is pound-for-pound equivalent to the battleships at Fondor, you’re looking at the firepower of half a dozen Dominions and the durability of that many Viscounts.”

“And they’d throw it at the Vong for us…”

“They’re warlords without an empire.” Gilad put his back to the transparisteel, looking over the three. Sarreti had been pushing to reach out to the Exiles almost from the moment they appeared on the scene. Nalgol was a perennial negative voice, but it was a role that Nalgol seemed to purposely lean into. Temm was balanced, practical and logical, backed by her ‘intuitions’ that struck at opportune times. “The Exiles defended Eboracum because they had nowhere else to go. We’ve listened to the address to the Senate on Coruscant. They’re here to fight a war and they’ve found one.”

Such stark phrasing. He’d wanted to applaud, simply for the sheer honesty behind the shocking words, if not the meaning. It was a wonder the New Republic stomached what Roboute Guilliman brought before them and laid out bare for all to see.

“If and when Eboracum falls, the Exiles’ war will not end, but their focus might change. Who will invite them in? Not proud Kuat, not Corellia. Nowhere in the Core will welcome them, but out here? I daresay the frontier of space that the Remnant was forced to brings a new opportunity.”

Nalgol, for once, didn’t argue.

“And the old cueballs do love to moan about the lack of human recruits, these days…”

Pellaeon smiled. It was pleasant to be surrounded by competence.

In his formal dress uniform, Roboute found Supreme Commander Gilad Pellaeon to be neat and professional. It was spotless white, bereft of much decoration or ornamentation at all aside from a small rectangular rank marker at his breast and gold tasseled epaulettes. Embarrassingly simplistic for a man of similar rank in the Imperialis Armada, but there was a tastefully martial simplicity to the uniform, he had to admit. Flanking him were the flesh-and-blood and holographic forms of the Moff Council of the Imperial Remnant. Another benefit to accepting Pellaeon’s invitation aboard Dominion - Honour had no such suite with which to make this meeting function.

Each Moff and their sphere of influence flitted through Guilliman’s memory. Ephin Sarreti, of Braxant Sector. Youthful, idealistic, but a capable political operator. Perhaps an equivalent to Viqi Shesh. Wellon Bemos, of Obtrexta. Aging, old-guard, but flexible and adaptive. Quillan Freyborn, Dynali. Vigorous, but waning in political influence. Ellsibeth Vered, Carrion. A relic of the old Republic with the entrenched capital to show for it. Sander D’Asta, Clacis. Distaff member of a broadly influential and rich family - likely nepotistic appointment. Edan Crowal, Perrin. Reclusive and reticent, jealous of her isolated sector’s relative security. Dominus Hort, Velcar. Crippled by the economic powers within his own sphere; a figurehead. Kurlen Flennic, Prefsbelt: often considered second in power and influence behind Pellaeon.

All but Sarreti and Flennic attended via hologram. All wore similar uniforms to Pellaeon, though in grey wool. Some affected a cap. It certainly made for a united front.

The scribes of the Adeptus Legatus were already settled, servo-skulls hovering over shoulders, dataslates prepared and mnemoquills poised. Phratus Auguston awaited, standing poised and at attention. As was his right, Guilliman entered last, escorted, as ever, by Gorod a stride behind and to his left.

The chamber rose to darkened heights, lumens suspended just above the circular conference table. The effect was to cast the table and the occupants in bright illumination and render the rest of the chamber darkened, such that aides and servants might come and go without notice and without obstructing the attention and focus of those at conference. Matching the sensibilities of this galaxy, the chamber was spartan in decoration. The table a bare, polished durasteel, the lumes simple and unadorned. Asceticism seemed to be a virtue.

Pellaeon claimed the center of the table, with Sarreti to his right and Flennic to his left. Behind Pellaeon stood a man and woman, cast half in shadow.

Gilad Palleaon, like his compatriots in the New Republic, only paled a little. His throat worked once, subtly, before he smoothly rose to his feet to greet the Primarch. Flennic’s frown carved deeper into his brow, but the broad man only blinked rapidly. Sarreti’s cheek twitched and his eyes glazed over for a moment, the young man actually shaking his head once as if to clear it.

The other Moffs, remote, had no reaction.

The woman behind Pellaeon was messily sick.

Gilad suppressed a wince as Miat Temm’s lunch impacted the decking, hearing her muttered apology around rapid, sucking breaths. Roboute Guilliman’s effect on average beings was known, as was his particularly potent effect on Jedi. If his aide’s particular talents were not already known, he suspected they would be common knowledge among the Moff Council now.

He felt it. The Primarch entered the chamber and Gilad suddenly found it difficult to draw breath. The man was too large. Not grossly disproportionate like some sithspawned monster, but huge in the way that bent perspective. Like a trick of the eyes, the man’s head brushed the already tall frame of the hatch, but everything about the Primarch still spoke of an incredibly well-muscled and broad, but recognizably human, man.

Just far, far too large. And moving too smoothly, too swiftly, too easily. He moved like a man half his height and fraction his size. It was like an AT-AT dancing.

In the presence of the reborn Palpatine Gilad had felt similar. A presence of power. An all-encompassing sort of authority.

Reflexively, he hated it.

“It’s quite alright, Miat. Take a breather and find a ‘fresher.”

“Again, I’m sorry, sir.”

“Think nothing of it. Go on.” Gilad waved her out,

Roboute Guilliman cleared his throat, expression schooled into something like chagrin, or maybe sympathy.

“My apologies. My presence does not always sit well with some.”

Some, indeed. Pellaeon took the apology for what it was worth.

“Miss Temm was already feeling under the weather. Let’s hope we’ve gotten the worst out of the way here at the beginning.”

A few chuckles, mostly forced, from the Moffs sold Pellaeon’s levity.

“Let’s,” Guilliman affirmed.

“Then allow me to welcome you aboard Dominion, flagship of the Galactic Empire.”

“Honoured, Supreme Commander.”

And then introductions began and continued for some time. One Phratus Auguston, Centurion of something called the First Batallion, who stood quietly to the Primarch’s left. Drakus Gorod, Captain of the Invictus Suzerain, almost a match to Guilliman in size and bulk in his armor. Several ‘Iterators’, now Ambassadors, who apparently were of some fame.

The flow of authority was abundantly clear.

He had only to look between the Primarch, the Astartes standing guard and the humans arrayed with Guilliman, made tiny by comparison.

This was an Empire ruled by brute strength. The size and design of their flagship: screaming to all with eyes that might makes right. Their leader: a massive, overmuscled being pretending at being human. His lieutenants, the rumored genetic clones of him. A dynasty of brutish warriors.

And he prepared to offer up the Remnant’s rarest treasures to them.

Roboute steepled his fingers, observing the Moffs, both in the flesh and in the holo. Some appeared irritated, some seemed sanguine.

‘Supplying Eboracum with further transports and establishing a joint office for emigration.’ Roboute reiterated. ‘Wherein the Remnant would accept aliens and ‘near-humans’ that do not match the requirements of the Imperium, along with a nominal fifteen percent of human refugees.’

‘We expect that the attraction of Eboracum, even after the whole moon incident, is very probably to begin stretching your supplies very soon, if it hasn’t already,’ Sander D’asta declared. ‘Not to doubt your capabilities, of course, but the Remnant has far more than just one world, as it happens. This way, we alleviate some pressure and prove the Remnant is an excellent location for those fleeing the Yuuzhan Vong to settle.’

This was not something Guilliman hadn’t pondered on. The refugee crisis sweeping the Galaxy was a foremost issue of policy and economics and the near universal reaction had befuddled him. Throwing wide Eboracum’s doors to all humans had yielded incredible short-term returns and the long-term remained positive. There were teething issues, to be sure - the education programme swung in popularity and the efforts to naturalize humans of this Galaxy into functioning members of a properly Imperial culture were ongoing. Centurion Foltrus, with the Primarch’s blessing, had enacted a decree that only natural-born Imperial citizens were to be considered for ranking positions of sufficient influence.

From a meritocratic standpoint, it was unfortunate, but the various corruptive influences of this Galaxy were potentially issuesome enough that Roboute was willing to overlook it. In time, in a few generations, this rule could be repealed, as those born under the Imperial banner grew to adulthood properly.

That there was resource strain was true, but only so true as that if one hoped to maintain a standard of living equivalent to the consumerist ideals of this Galaxy. No Imperial citizen wanted for food, water, medicine or living space. There was work to be had for all, education provided and all necessities accounted for. Luxuries were sparse, but luxuries were self-describingly frivolous.

Again, in time, such things would change.

Centurion Foltrus’ additional edict encouraging trueborn Imperials to begin families was accepted as well.

To return to the issues of refugees, once issues of culture were put aside - as culture could be amended, adjusted and if necessary, stamped out - accepting refugees allowed for significant increases in available manpower for industry. Those with high education would provide experiential capital, enriching the advanced industries. This was why the Imperium welcomed any and all human worlds that chose to join with their brothers from Terra. No matter what, there was something the Imperium stood to gain.

That the Remnant had decided to abstain from this rich source of labor was curious, though now it seemed they were coming to their senses.

‘There are some who have emigrated and have not settled well into Imperial life,’ Roboute admitted. ‘Perhaps as a modification, the Remnant would be an alternative for those who come to Eboracum, should they prove incompatible with our ways.’

‘That would complicate logistics, you know,’ Dominus Hort retorted. ‘It’s easier if we just have them come straight to Remnant space.’

‘At worst, there is lost time.’ Roboute waved away the argument. Compared to warp travel, hyperspace ran on sunlight and water. Essentially free. Giving leave for the Remnant to poach any percentage of the SELCORE-directed refugees and he was certain they would hand-select the professionals and specialists. Eboracum and the Exiled Imperium needed those of all walks. There was always work to be done.

The discussion spun on.

As per the demands on his position, Roboute had set aside but one singular day to meet physically. After, he would return to Macragge’s Honour and thence to Eboracum, attending via holo to further meetings, but otherwise the Adeptus Legatus would take over the minutia.

As the session spun down, the most glaring fact continued to be danced around. The fact that led to why, Roboute suspected, Gilad Pellaeon sailed out in Dominion.

The fact that the Imperial Remnant had little to nothing to truly offer the Exiled Imperium. Jaemus was a fringe branch of Kuat: the Treaty of Fundamental Iron put Kuat itself in the Imperium’s court. SELCORE managed the masses of refugees - the Remnant could only entreat with them as well. The New Republic outnumbered the Remnant several times over, in terms of sheer naval tonnage, with that gulf increasing every day. The Remnant had wealth, but the New Republic had more. The Remnant was relatively near, in a galactic sense, but the New Republic bordered the Imperium.

Roboute knew they wished for a strong and responsive ally, to no longer stand alone against the Yuuzhan Vong. Though Supreme Commander Malik Carr had only poked gently at the Remnant, all knew the time was coming when they would be the next in line. The Hutts lasted as long as Nas Choka looked aside, and now they foundered before the Yuuzhan Vong.

He could even see the practical utility of allying with the Remnant, as an attempt to describe an arc of resistance in the galactic north, yet could the Remnant truly hold up their end of the bargain?

Flennic was bored of the entire affair. He was easy to read and though newly a Moff, his political history was long and deep and provided a breadth of analysis on the man. Temm also helped to confirm some particular theories. Flennic hated Palpatine through and through and Gilad suspected that Flennic saw Roboute as ‘yet another sorcerer-king’. Sarreti was taken in, that much was clear, the young Moff of Bastion hanging onto Roboute’s rolling-thunder voice. The other Moffs varied. Bemos and D’Asta, being as their sectors were right up against the Yuuzhan Vong advance were the most invested, though D’Asta seemed untowardly critical.

There was hemming and hawing and the lack of interest from the Exiles was growing ever more clear.

Jaemus couldn’t offer what Kuat could. The coffers of the Remnant were a fraction of the New Republic. Even Hapes was likely richer. Technologically, the Exiles appeared to hold the upper hand. Even the bait of refugee assistance was partially parried.

That had been a contentious topic at the previous Council meeting. Sarreti had upbraided the other Moffs for how obvious the Exile’s tactic had been and how utterly boneheaded the Moffs had been to close their borders to any fleeing the Yuuzhan Vong. The Imperial Remnant was supposed to be the alternative! Proof against the New Republic, an example of how the fundamental truths of the Empire were right, even if they had been lost along the way!

The Empire could have thrown wide their doors. The influx of wealth, experience, people would’ve breathed new life into the flagging nation. They could’ve shown the hypocrisy of the New Republic, willing to let their own people, their own citizens burn while they discussed in committee. Decisive action! That was the Remnant! The Empire!

Gilad was of two minds. On the one hand, Sarreti wasn’t wrong in that they had passed up a supreme chance to smear egg on the face of the New Republic. On the other - the Pentastar Alignment, the substrate of the Remnant, was an insular and isolated sort of culture. The ramifications of unchecked immigration in such a way could not be predicted.

But a tempered approach, bringing in the best and brightest and a necessary helping of the rest for appearance’s sake, that would likely have been ideal.

The Exiles beat them to the punch.

As the New Republic had beaten them to the Exiles. At best, at best, Pellaeon suspected they could agree on sharing intelligence and perhaps some degree of trade. A defensive pact would be shocking.

Save for one factor.

“I’m sorry to shift the topic, but I’ve had a thought, Lord Guilliman.”

Roboute raised a blonde eyebrow, curious.

“Your joint raid on Obroa-skai is well known, but the goal is, of course, highly classified.” Not that Pellaeon hadn’t read the official NRI report, of course. “Would it be too far if I inquired?”

“Not at all,” the Primarch rumbled. “The primary purpose was shrouded to deny the enemy time to prepare or destroy our prize, but that matters little now. No, it would not harm operations to say that we had hoped to acquire further data from the databanks of the Obroan Institute. As is rumored,” the Primarch managed, somehow, a shadow of a self-deprecating smile, “we are not from around here. Professors of the Obroan Institute intimated that there might be records that could assist in our finding a way…home.”

Pellaeon nodded, keeping a careful look of interest on his face.

“Records…such as?”

The Primarch idly waved a massive hand.

“Astrographical charts, xenoarchaeological records, myths, rumors. The concrete and the ephemeral, Admiral. The Warp is quite unknown here, though doubtful it has always been so.”

“Ah,” Gilad said. He leaned forward, just slightly. A careful cast, but he felt sure to hook. “If this is an interest to the Exiles, then it’s no secret that Grand Admiral Thrawn compiled a rare collection of extensive information on the Unknown Regions. Maps, notes, historical records… none of which have yet made it into public circulation. All kept secure on Bastion, you know.”

There was a beat, and then he felt the fury of the Moffs as a physical weight.

The Primarch, for the first time, actually appeared interested.

The remotely attending Moffs vanished, one after another. Kurlen stretched when he stood. Sarreti cornered a few Legatus adepts. Gilad Pellaeon came around the table, offering a hand to Roboute. Amused, he took it, careful around the elder mortal’s grip.

‘It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Consul Guilliman. I appreciate your accepting this meeting. I think this is the beginning of a fruitful friendship between the Empire and the Imperium.’

‘And yours, Grand Admiral. Your reputation well precedes you. Send my apologies and well wishes to Madam Temm.’

‘I will. I’m sure she will appreciate it as much as she regrets her absence.’

Auguston attended them, armor hissing smoothly as he planted himself, hands clasped behind his back.

‘Admiral, a reintroduction. Phratus Auguston, Centurion of First Battalion. Phratus, Supreme Commander Pellaeon of the Imperial Remnant.’

Auguston inclined his head slightly, matched by Pellaeon.

‘First Battalion is the speartip for the Legiones Ultramarine. In the future, when our nations take the field, like as not it will be Auguston’s Battalion.’

Pellaeon surveyed the Astartes.

‘I’m sure we’ll have much to learn from each other.’

‘Likely,’ Phratus replied.

‘He was an admirer of this ship,’ Roboute continued. ‘Quite vocally.’

Auguston glowered.

‘Chimaera will stay my first love, but Dominion does have a presence all her own. Lord Consul, one final matter. Before we depart, there’ll be one final arrival. Brazen Grasp is an Interdictor-class cruiser. Jaemus is offering it as a gift. Word is that your ‘Warp’ technology has interesting interactions with mass shadows.’

Uncommonly surprised, Roboute bowed his head.

‘I will accept it with pride on behalf of the Imperium. A notable gift. Jaemus has the regard, and the attention, of the Exiles Imperium.’

Pellaeon smiled a thin smile.

‘I believe that was their goal. We’ll speak again, surely, Lord Consul.’

‘My aides will share my private holocom codes. Safe travels, Grand Admiral.’

Though the Remnant easily lived up to the name, the trip was not wasted. Macragge’s Honour flew admirably, though the trip to this abandoned system just Rimward of Eboracum was simple and quick. Gilad Pellaeon, though he ruled over a dying rump state, one undone quite comprehensively by the New Republic - and such a condemnation that was, considering his judgments of general Republican mettle - seemed an honest and direct man. Beneficially, as the unmatched leader of the Remnant, Pellaeon had the right and the will to do whatever he pleased, as best Guilliman could determine. The dangling of Grand Admiral Thrawn’s maps and intelligence had incensed not a few of the Moffs. They had argued, but not recused or threatened. Gilad Pellaeon held the reins, not the Moff Council.

Pellaeon’s reticence had been a constant undercurrent, balanced by Sarreti’s interest and few of the other Moff’s polite attention. One would never hope to win over all, but given Pellaeon’s position, he need only secure the one; any others would be benefit. He made note to mention the particular reaction of Miat Temm to Master Skywalker, either through Aeonid or otherwise. Only those claiming Force-sensitivity reacted so explosively in his presence.

A direct line to Borsk Feyl’ya he judged to bear little value. One to the Grand Admiral; that was another matter entirely.

The Exiled Imperium would find use for the Imperial Remnant regardless, without a doubt.

Flennic was fairly apoplectic at Gilad’s ‘subterfuge’. The other Moffs reacted with similar hostility, namely at the fear of giving up so powerful a bargaining chip. The memory of Thrawn still loomed large and if nothing else, the Empire could still pride itself on intelligence that was second to none. Every bit doled out to the Exiles would, they argued, make its way to the grubby hands of NRI and outward, until the whole galaxy knew.

Data analysts had only scratched the surface of Thrawn’s inheritance, and who knew what treasures might be squandered away.

His retort was that he would be glad to live to see ‘treasures’ squandered away, as that would mean the Empire, and the Galaxy, had survived the Vong.

Sarreti, ever supportive, had added that for all that Thrawn and the Chiss explored the Unknown Regions, they still remained the Unknown Regions and had there been grand wonders locked away for the taking, surely the Chiss would have beaten any others there, and there would be some sign of it.

Poor Temm recovered enough to brief him on what she had experienced, which the woman struggled to place into words. In private, she admitted she had been sure she could handle it and that the statements from the Jedi were overstated.

It was unfortunate to be public. There was little doubt that all the Moffs suspected Temm’s position in his staff and her particular talents, though there was a difference between suspecting and knowing. Her rather spectacular outing would curtain her previous roles, but she was nothing if not a trustworthy and capable woman and knowing about her did not make them any less relevant.

Jaemus’ overture had been delivered, the Dominion showed the flag and a secure line to the Exile’s Primarch was promised.

He did not share Sarreti’s relish for the newcomers, but Gilad was ever a pragmatist. Ithor had been an essential action, even if the Moffs castigated him for it. The writing on the wall was growing clearer day by day and star by star. The Vong were coming, and the bloodlust of the Exiles would be his shield against the darkness.