Chapter 29: The First Rule about Empire Club
The ritual chamber used to be Jabba's private audience room.
That fact alone probably should have stopped us.
The walls were still carved with obscene excess—gold inlays, Huttese sigils of ownership, reliefs depicting crimes that absolutely did not need to be immortalized in stone. We'd scrubbed the blood out. Mostly. But the Force? The Force had a long memory, and it remembered every scream this room had ever swallowed.
Which, honestly, made it kind of perfect.
I stepped through the inner sanctum doors without ceremony, the sound of my boots echoing too loudly in a space that had never learned how to be quiet. The chamber lights dimmed automatically—one of the palace systems we hadn't bothered to reprogram yet. Ambient red glow. Dramatic shadows. Sith Realness.
Maris was already there, lounging against a plinth like she'd been born to haunt it. Arms crossed. Expression hovering somewhere between bored and predatory. Her eyes tracked me, then flicked to my hands.
"That better not be what I think it is," she said.
"It's exactly what you think it is," I said, and set the Sith holocron down on the central dais.
Wrath's holocron didn't look impressive.
That was always the funny part.
No screaming faces. No bleeding kyber glow. Just a dark, angular polyhedron, its surface etched with ancient runes that drank in the light instead of reflecting it. It sat there, inert and quiet, like a loaded blaster on a table full of idiots.
Ever since the Force ghost had fucked off—thank you for the trauma, master, loved the lessons, please don't call—I'd kept it close. Not because it whispered to me. Not because it tempted me.
Because it didn't.
Wrath had taught us everything he intended to. Then he'd gone dormant, like a smug old bastard hitting snooze on immortality. No commentary. No warnings. No advice.
Which, honestly, made him the best Sith mentor I'd ever had.
Technically the only one, too. But who the hell else am I supposed to use as a Sith role model? Darth Maul? Darth Sidious? Darth Vader? Because every single one of them got absolutely fucked up physically. No legs, no face, no legs and no face. Hard pass.
Maris pushed off the plinth and circled the dais, boots silent against the stone. "You're really doing this."
"Doing what?"
She gestured vaguely between the holocron and me. "Whatever galaxy-brained nonsense this is."
I reached into my cloak and withdrew the second artifact.
The Jedi holocron was… wrong.
Not broken. Not corrupted. Just off, like a chord played half a step too low. Its surface was pale and smooth, a familiar geometric lattice—but the light within it flickered unevenly, as if it couldn't quite remember what color it was supposed to be.
Jabba had never understood what he owned. To him, it had been another trophy. Another insult to collect. He'd locked it away, surrounded it with wealth and rot and cruelty, and the Force had taken that personally.
Objects remembered.
Places remembered.
And this thing remembered being caged.
I set it opposite Wrath's holocron, the two artifacts facing each other across the dais like rival chess pieces.
Maris stared at it for a long moment. "That thing hates this room."
"Yeah," I said. "Same."
She tilted her head. "You sure this works?"
I shrugged. "Saw it once. In a vision."
Her eyes narrowed. "You saw a ritual that lets you fuse a Sith holocron and a Jedi holocron to ask the universe a question."
"Correct."
"And you didn't mention it until now."
"Um… no, I think I did. Back when we were in Korriban. Don't you remember?"
Maris exhaled slowly through her nose. "Ben, we talked about a lot of things in Korriban. You're going to have to be more specific than that."
"More specific than the time I told you we could answer literally any question we wanted to, with just two holocrons? Because that felt pretty memorable to me." I argued.
"Sure. And has your 'vision' told you that the ritual won't murder us in the process?" Maris shot back. "Because that feels pretty important to me."
"Murder is such a strong word."
"Okay. How about a softer one." She crossed her arms. "It it safe?"
Well… no. But! In my defense, it worked out great in Rebels.
"Look, Maris, you're asking a lot of questions. Is that who you want to be? The curious, not judgmental type, who wants to know how deep the water is before diving in?" I would ordinarily use a Force Persuasion for this, but sadly, Maris is not weak-minded, so I had to resort to another mind trick.
Gaslighting.
"Or are you a swimmer?"
She stared at me.
I stared back.
"…You're insane," she said finally.
"Yep."
…
…
Then she stepped onto the opposite side of the dais and sat down cross-legged without another word. "Fine. Let's do it."
Of course she agreed immediately. Calling me insane was just part of her due diligence.
I knelt across from her, the holocrons between us. The air already felt heavier, like the room was leaning in to listen.
"This isn't Sith orthodoxy," Maris said.
"Good."
"This isn't Jedi doctrine."
"Even better."
She smirked. "So what is it?"
I closed my eyes, reaching out with the Force—not grasping, just acknowledging. The Light wasn't morality. It wasn't goodness. It was clarity. Structure. The ability to see a thing as it was, not as you wanted it to be.
"I think," I said, "it's cheating."
Her smile widened.
We took our roles without ceremony.
I anchored myself to the Light—not because I believed in it, but because it was steady. It didn't lie. It didn't promise. It just was. A calm center, a fixed point I could brace against when the rest of the universe decided to start doing backflips.
Maris embraced the Dark like it had been waiting for her.
Not rage. Not hate. Just honesty. The Dark didn't pretend feelings weren't power. It didn't ask you to let go. It asked you to take responsibility for wanting things.
The moment both currents touched the holocrons, the room rebelled.
Light bent sideways. Shadows stretched where they shouldn't exist. The low hum of the palace systems warped into something almost musical, notes dragging like they were moving through syrup.
Gravity hiccupped.
For half a second, my knees lifted off the floor.
The holocrons began to rotate, slowly at first, then faster, their light intertwining—pale and dark, spiraling around each other in a pattern that hurt to look at if you focused too hard.
Wrath's presence stirred.
Not awake. Not active.
But aware.
Like a massive predator rolling over in its sleep, annoyed that someone had turned the lights on.
I felt the faintest brush of attention, ancient and amused.
Go back to bed, I thought at it.
The pressure receded. Lazy, dismissive. Typical.
The ritual reached its apex.
This was the moment.
The question.
Every cell in my body screamed with possibilities.
I could ask about Sidious. About Palpatine. About the future. About betrayals, wars, endings. I could confirm everything I already knew, map out the galaxy like a solved puzzle.
I didn't.
I already knew how that story went.
And honestly? Power that came too easy got boring fast.
I opened my eyes.
Maris was watching me, eyes bright, Force crackling around her like a live wire. She wanted chaos. She wanted revelation. She wanted something interesting.
I gave the universe the most adult question I could think of.
"Where is the Katana Fleet?"
...
The Force did not answer questions.
That was the first lie the Jedi ever told.
It didn't answer—it revealed. Peeled things back. Let you see what had always been there, whether you were ready or not. Whether the truth wanted to be seen.
Maris felt that difference the moment Ben finished asking.
Where is the Katana Fleet?
The fused holocron didn't speak.
It unfolded.
Light didn't burst outward so much as lose the concept of containment. The two geometries—Jedi and Sith, order and hunger—collapsed into each other, surfaces flattening, then turning inside out. Angles became curves. Curves became impossible. The object between them stopped being an object and became an event.
Maris's breath caught.
This wasn't like Sith visions. There was no scream, no rush of pain or ecstasy. No grandstanding. The Force here felt… careful. Uneasy. Like it knew what it was about to give them and resented being made to do it.
The chamber dimmed further, as if embarrassed to witness this.
Ben went very still.
She felt him anchor—felt the Light lock into place around him like a stabilizer fin, rigid and deliberate. Not moral. Not kind. Just clean. He wasn't reaching. He was bracing.
Smart.
Then the answer hit him.
Maris couldn't see what he saw—not fully—but she felt the shape of it through the Dark Side, like vibrations through bone.
Silent dreadnaughts.
Not one or two. Hundreds. Massive silhouettes drifting through nothingness, aligned in perfect, military precision. No lights. No chatter. No life signs. A fleet that had forgotten how to breathe.
A dead man's plan.
She tasted it in the Force—cold intent preserved past its creator's heartbeat. A contingency layered so deeply it had survived history. Someone had trusted machines more than people. Had chosen obedience over loyalty.
Hyperspace coordinates followed, burning through Ben's mind in tight, exacting sequences. Not just numbers—warnings. Ancient glyphs coiled around them, screaming in a language older than modern Sith, older than the Republic.
DO NOT WAKE
DO NOT CLAIM
DO NOT ANSWER
The Force recoiled even as it delivered them.
Maris smiled.
Because what she saw was different.
The fleet wasn't drifting.
It was kneeling.
Two hundred Dreadnaughts, titanic and terrible, arranged like supplicants before an absent throne. Power without purpose. Weapons without will. They didn't care who commanded them—only that someone did.
Loyalty hadn't been programmed.
Only obedience.
And that was so much better.
Opportunity screamed at her, raw and electric. Not whispered. Not tempted. It was obvious, plain as daylight. These ships weren't a prize—they were an invitation. A gap in the galaxy's defenses so wide it felt insulting no one had taken it yet.
Because they were waiting.
The Force twisted, visibly now. The air rippled, pressure oscillating as if reality itself wanted to step back and pretend this wasn't happening. Maris felt the Dark Side surge—not wild, not uncontrolled, but eager. This was what it was for. Not destruction.
Acquisition.
The fused holocron shuddered.
Cracks spiderwebbed across its impossible surface—not damage, exactly, but strain. The answer was too big. Too wrong. Knowledge that had been intentionally buried, quarantined by time and tragedy and fear.
Ben swayed.
Maris snapped her focus toward him instantly, Dark Side coiling tighter, grounding him through sheer force of will. She didn't touch him physically. Didn't need to. The Force bridged the gap, sharp and sure.
He didn't fall.
Good.
With a sound like a held breath finally breaking, the holocron split.
Not cleanly.
The Jedi artifact fell first, clattering against the stone, its once-steady glow now uneven, flickering like it had seen something it wished it hadn't. The Sith holocron followed, heavier, darker, its edges subtly reshaped—as if it had learned something and resented the lesson.
They did not return to what they had been.
They never would.
The room went silent.
Not ritual silence. Not dramatic silence.
The kind that follows catastrophe.
Maris rose slowly, the Dark still humming through her veins, savoring the aftertaste. Her heart beat faster, but not from fear. From anticipation. From the simple, intoxicating certainty that something irreversible had just happened.
Ben stared at the coordinates burned into his mind, jaw tight. He wasn't panicking. He wasn't celebrating.
He was calculating.
She recognized that look. It was the same one he got when he stopped pretending this was all a game. When the weight of consequence finally registered.
They hadn't uncovered a secret.
They'd stolen one.
Something meant to die with its creator. A ghost fleet, entombed not by accident, but by intent. Whoever had buried the Katana Fleet had done so knowing exactly what would happen if someone like them ever found it.
And now they had.
Maris watched the realization settle over him, slow and heavy. The way his shoulders squared—not in triumph, but acceptance. He understood what this meant. Understood that the galaxy didn't forgive people who took shortcuts like this.
Good.
Fear made things interesting.
She also understood something else, watching him stand there in the aftermath—Light still wrapped around him like armor, restraint holding firm.
He would hesitate.
He would think about ripple effects. About history. About whether this crossed some invisible line he still pretended to respect.
Maris stepped closer, boots echoing softly in the vast chamber. The Dark Side hummed approvingly, coiled and content. This was not chaos. This was clarity of a different kind.
"Ben," she said gently.
He looked at her.
Maris smiled—the kind that had never once meant mercy.
"It's okay. We're Sith."
She'll never stop smiling when she says that, will she?
"When we want something," she continued, voice smooth and certain, "we go fucking get it."
...
There's a particular kind of moment where you realize you're not planning anymore.
You're executing.
That's when the fear is supposed to kick in. That's when a sensible person pauses, reassesses, maybe sleeps on it, maybe consults a committee, maybe asks a trusted advisor whether stealing a dead admiral's ghost fleet before breakfast is, in fact, a good idea.
I did none of that.
Instead, I stood in Jabba's former throne room—now our throne room, which still felt illegal to think about—and watched Maris already mentally halfway across the galaxy.
She was pacing. Not nervous pacing. Predator pacing. The kind where the destination was already decided and the rest of the universe just hadn't caught up yet.
Good.
If we hesitated, the Force would punish us for it. I'd learned that much already. It didn't like indecision. It especially didn't like when you asked it for forbidden knowledge and then got squeamish about using it.
So. Immediate departure it was.
The throne room had been stripped of most of Jabba's… aesthetic. The chains were gone. The more offensive art pieces had been melted down or quietly ejected into the desert. What remained was stone, shadow, and a semicircle of HK-series droids standing at parade rest like this was the proudest day of their collective murder-lives.
Which, to be fair, it probably was.
Aurra Sing leaned against one of the pillars, arms crossed, watching us with the exact expression of someone who had accepted that her life had gone off the rails but was choosing to see where it ended.
She didn't bow.
I appreciated that.
"We're leaving," I told the room, because apparently this was my life now. Announcing things to rooms.
Aurra's eyebrow ticked up a millimeter. "For how long?"
"Unknown," Maris replied without slowing down. "Short enough that nothing collapses. Long enough that if it does, it's your fault."
Aurra snorted. "You trust me that much?"
"No," I said honestly. "We trust you exactly the right amount."
That got her full attention.
I stepped closer, feeling the faint, constant hum of the Dark Side under the floor—Mos Espa's new baseline radiation. "You're not in charge because you're loyal. You're in charge because you're practical."
She studied me then, really studied me. Not Darth Sol. Not the mask. Me.
"And if I decide to take the throne instead?"
I shrugged. "Then you'd still need to run a city, manage an army of homicidal droids, keep the Hutts from retaliating, and not accidentally provoke the Republic, the Confederacy, the Jedi, or the Sith."
…
"Plus, you don't strike me as someone who enjoys paperwork."
Aurra smiled, sharp and approving. "You're learning."
She straightened, pushing off the pillar. "Fine. I'll keep your little empire warm. Rules?"
"Yes," Maris said. "Don't burn it down."
Aurra tilted her head. "That's it?"
I considered. "Also, if someone claims to be me, kill them."
"Immediately?"
"Immediately."
She nodded once. "Deal."
Behind us, one of the HKs stepped forward. HK-77, I thought. Or maybe 42. Hard to tell. They all looked like enthusiasm wrapped in gunmetal.
"Declaration: This unit acknowledges interim regent Aurra Sing as Acting Asset Overseer. Statement: Any attempt to destabilize the empire during your absence will be met with overwhelming violence."
Another HK chimed in. "Addendum: Overwhelming violence will be followed by ceremonial disposal."
Aurra blinked. "Ceremonial?"
"Clarification: We will make an example."
She glanced back at me. "You trained them like this?"
"I didn't stop them," I said.
The HKs turned to me in unison.
"Affirmation: We exist to serve, Master."
That… did something uncomfortable to my spine.
Before I could unpack it, a familiar, anxious voice cut through the moment.
"Master Ben, I must insist—no, implore—that I accompany you."
C-3PO stood near the edge of the room, posture ramrod straight, golden plating polished to an almost defiant shine. He looked like a walking diplomatic incident.
"I am now," he continued, "apparently a symbol of legitimacy. Several of the local merchant guilds have already begun referring to me as 'the golden arbiter,' which I do not like, for the record."
Maris stopped pacing.
Slowly turned.
"You want to come with us," she said flatly.
"Yes!" C-3PO replied. "Well—no. I mean—yes. Reluctantly. Out of duty."
"You will die," she told him.
"I am aware."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "You're not a symbol of legitimacy."
"I am literally a former protocol droid, built by a slave, and purchased legally from a civilian homestead," C-3PO said. "Do you have any idea how reassuring that is to people?"
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it.
Because… annoyingly… he wasn't wrong.
Before I could concede defeat, a heavier, far more malicious voice joined the conversation.
"Observation: Historic acquisitions statistically include betrayal."
HK-47 stepped forward, optics glowing with delight. "Assessment: I should accompany you, Master. In case I get to eliminate the gold one."
"I—good heavens!" C-3PO sputtered. "I would never betray our master! And 'get'? Don't you mean 'if you have to'?"
HK-47 tilted his head. "Denial: I said what I said, curtain rod."
The room went very quiet.
Aurra burst out laughing.
I sighed. "Fine. You're both coming."
C-3PO visibly sagged with relief.
HK-47 straightened, clearly thrilled. "Statement: This pleases me greatly."
I pointed at him. "You are not allowed to kill him."
"Clarification: Define 'kill.'"
"No."
"Counterpoint: Begrudging acceptance."
We finalized the rest quickly. Supply routes. Defensive parameters. Standing orders. Aurra listened, asked sharp questions, offered sharper answers. She wasn't pretending to care about ideology. She cared about survival, leverage, and profit.
Which, frankly, put her ahead of most governments.
As we moved toward the exit, she caught my sleeve.
One last look. Calculating. Honest.
"If you die," she said, "I'm looting everything."
I smiled behind the mask. "I'd be offended if you didn't."
She released me. "Bring back something big."
Maris was already halfway out the door.
The HKs parted for us like a cathedral guard. Not reverent—proud. As if this was the moment history would remember.
Maybe it would.
As the desert sun hit us and our transport powered up, I had one final, intrusive thought.
I had just handed a criminal empire to a bounty hunter, taken a neurotic protocol droid and a homicidal assassin machine with me, and left an army of killer robots to behave themselves.
… there is a non-zero probability that the twin subs have driven me mad.
I really need to get off this fucking planet.
...
Space has a way of making you feel small.
Which is impressive, because I had just stolen a city, murdered a crime lord, performed an illegal Force ritual, and left a bounty hunter in charge of an empire like she was house-sitting a very aggressive dog. By all rights, my ego should've been riding high.
Instead, as our ship dropped out of hyperspace, I felt thirteen again. A kid staring up at something ancient and quiet and way too big to belong to anyone who was still breathing.
The Katana Fleet didn't arrive so much as it was already there.
Two hundred Dreadnaught-class heavy cruisers hung in the void in perfect formation, lights dark, hulls scarred by time but otherwise pristine. No running lights. No chatter. No escort craft. Just an armada of dead metal, drifting like a mass grave that had learned military discipline before it died.
"Well," I muttered. "That's… excessive."
C-3PO leaned forward in the cockpit, optics wide. "Oh my. Oh my. I don't believe I have sufficient cultural subroutines to process this level of historical theft."
HK-47's voice cut in immediately. "Statement: I find it deeply satisfying."
Maris didn't say anything. She just smiled.
The fleet didn't react to us at first. No challenge codes. No automated warnings. No ancient battle droids popping out to scream about trespassers. The Katana Fleet was famous for that—fully automated, centralized command, everything slaved to one control core.
A dead man's contingency plan, frozen in time.
Our ship drifted closer to the lead Dreadnaught, its massive hull blotting out the stars. Docking clamps engaged with a sound that reverberated through the deck, metal acknowledging metal after centuries of silence.
"Okay," I said, standing. "Standard plan."
Maris glanced at me. "There was a plan?"
"Conceptually."
HK-47 perked up. "Query: Does the plan involve killing?"
"Yes."
"Statement: Excellent."
The airlock cycled.
Silence poured in.
The inside of the Dreadnaught felt… wrong. Not hostile. Not dangerous. Just empty in a way that made my skin itch. The Force didn't flow here so much as it stagnated, pooled around old decisions and older deaths.
No alarms sounded.
No lights flickered on.
We moved through corridors wide enough to march armies through, boots echoing off durasteel that hadn't heard a footstep in generations.
"This is unsettling," C-3PO whispered. "No one has cleaned in centuries."
"That's the best part," Maris said. "No one to complain."
She stepped forward—and vanished.
Not cloaking. Not camouflage. Just… gone. The Dark Side folded perception around her like a bad habit, convincing reality she wasn't worth noticing.
"Show-off," I muttered, and followed.
The first security droids activated at the junction ahead—old models, heavy blasters charging with a tired whine. One fired on reflex.
I didn't.
The bolt slammed into my chest and dispersed, energy bleeding harmlessly into the Force field I hadn't consciously raised.
"Oh," I said, mildly surprised. "That still works."
More fire came. I walked through it.
Blaster bolts hit, flared, died. I felt the energy soak into me, not as power, not as rage—just information. Input. Output. The Force balanced the equation automatically.
A flick of my wrist sent a pressure wave down the corridor. Bulkheads screamed. Droids folded like cheap furniture.
Lightning followed—not dramatic, not screamed into existence. Just a casual extension of intent. Blue-white arcs snapped from my fingers, short-circuiting servos, frying processors, leaving smoking husks scattered along the walls.
I hadn't even broken stride.
Maris reappeared ahead, stepping out of nothing like she'd just remembered she existed. "Flagship bridge is clear," she said. "Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"One droid tried to think at me. It failed."
We reached the bridge in under ten minutes.
Ten minutes to clear a ship that once required thousands of crew.
The command chamber was a cathedral of control—tiered consoles, massive viewport, the central command chair waiting patiently at the heart of it all.
Waiting.
I felt it before I sat down. A subtle tug. Not Force compulsion—recognition.
Like the fleet had been holding its breath.
Maris leaned against a console, arms crossed, eyes bright. "Go on."
I hesitated.
Not because I was afraid of what would happen.
Because I was afraid of how easy it felt.
I lowered myself into the chair.
The systems came alive.
Not with sound. With obedience.
Lights ignited across the bridge, one by one, then across the fleet. Two hundred Dreadnaughts awakened in perfect synchrony, power cores humming, command channels aligning around a single axis.
Me.
The sensation slammed into my awareness like a gravity well. Not voices. Not thoughts. Just… readiness. The fleet didn't care who sat in the chair. It cared that someone finally had.
I exhaled.
"Well," I said quietly. "That was easy."
Maris laughed. Loud. Delighted. Unapologetic.
"See?" she said. "Why spend years developing power when you can just take it?"
HK-47 stepped onto the bridge, surveying the displays with visible glee. "Statement: I approve of this acquisition."
C-3PO followed more cautiously, staring at the readouts in horror. "Oh dear. Oh dear. Do you have any idea what you've just done?"
"Yes," I said.
"No," Maris said at the same time.
We shared a look.
I leaned back in the chair, feeling the fleet settle around my presence like a predator acknowledging its handler. Somewhere in the galaxy, people were arguing about politics. About citizenship. About legality. About whether power should be earned or voted on or inherited.
And here I was, sitting in a dead man's throne, commanding two hundred warships because I'd asked the Force the right question and hadn't blinked at the answer.
Call me crazy, but I think I might be doing something right.
...
Hyperspace always made Maris restless.
Stars stretched into lines, time folded in on itself, and everything felt like it was waiting—for arrival, for impact, for consequences. It was a sensation she'd learned to enjoy, the way the Dark Side thrummed pleasantly in her bones whenever the galaxy blurred into abstraction.
Ben, annoyingly, treated hyperspace like a long elevator ride.
He sat sideways in the command chair, boots hooked over the armrest, fingers flicking through fleet diagnostics with the casual air of someone checking the weather. Two hundred Dreadnaughts followed their course in perfect formation, their presence a low, constant pressure in the Force.
Power.
So much power.
Maris watched him from the edge of the cockpit, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed in appraisal. She could feel what the fleet represented. Not loyalty. Not allegiance. Just capability. Raw, obedient violence waiting for direction.
And Ben… Ben was treating it like a borrowed speeder.
"We should probably test them," she said aloud.
He didn't look up. "The ships or my patience?"
"Yes."
That earned a snort. He finally glanced her way, expression thoughtful rather than annoyed, which was almost worse. "I was already thinking about drills. Power cycling. Coordinated jumps. Making sure they don't all explode the first time we sneeze at them."
"That's boring," Maris said flatly. "I meant testing them."
He leaned back further, chair creaking. "I'm listening."
Maris smiled.
Not wide. Not manic. Just enough to be interesting.
"There are… opportunities," she said. "Out here. Independent operators. Pirate fleets. Smugglers who think they're untouchable because no one big enough has bothered to correct them."
Ben sighed.
A real one. Deep. From the chest. The kind of sigh that said he'd known this was coming and had been hoping—foolishly—that it wouldn't.
"Maris."
"I'm not saying kill them."
"You're implying it."
"I'm implying leverage."
She stepped closer, leaning over the back of his chair, eyes flicking to the tactical overlay. Hyperspace lanes intersected with half a dozen known pirate routes. Red markers blinked lazily, flagged by old Republic intel and newer, shadier sources.
"Fleet exercises don't have to be theoretical," she continued. "They can be… persuasive."
Ben turned his head, looking up at her. His expression was calm. Focused. Not angry.
That was always the dangerous part.
"No civilian targets," he said.
Maris blinked, surprised—not by the rule, but by how immediately it came. No hesitation. No internal debate she could sense through the Force.
"No killing unless necessary," he added. "And 'necessary' does not include 'because it would be faster.'"
She studied him more carefully now.
Ben wasn't drawing the line because he was afraid of crossing it. He wasn't clinging to Jedi morality out of guilt or nostalgia. He was… choosing.
Ruthless, but not cruel.
It irritated her. Just a little.
"I wasn't suggesting civilian targets," she said. "I'm not a monster."
His mouth twitched. "Debatable."
She smacked the back of his head lightly. "Rude."
He accepted the hit without comment, which meant he knew he'd earned it.
Maris straightened, folding her arms. "Fine. No civilians. No unnecessary deaths. But intimidation? Disruption? A show of force that sends a message to every idiot with a blaster and a dream of being king of the void?"
Ben considered that.
She could feel the calculus running behind his eyes. Not moral panic. Strategic assessment. Consequences weighed and measured, not emotionally rejected.
"That," he said slowly, "is piracy-adjacent."
Maris's smile returned, sharper this time. "Adjacent is still technically legal in at least twelve systems."
"Those are not good systems."
"They're fun systems."
He exhaled again, rubbing a hand over his face. "I hate that you make this sound reasonable."
"You love that I make this sound reasonable."
"I love that I have a conscience," he corrected. "I tolerate that you enjoy stress-testing it."
She laughed, dark and delighted. "You're doing great, by the way. For someone who just accidentally became a warlord."
"Low bar."
"Still."
Silence settled between them, comfortable and charged. The fleet hummed around them, patient. Waiting to be used.
Ben's fingers hovered over the nav console. "If we do this," he said, "it's a demonstration. Not a massacre. We scare them. We embarrass them. We leave them alive enough to tell the story."
Maris tilted her head. "And who do you have in mind?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he pulled up another data layer—less official, more… colorful. A stylized insignia spun slowly into view.
A grinning Weequay face.
"Oh," Maris said. "Oh, yes."
Hondo Ohnaka's pirate fleet drifted comfortably along a well-worn hyperspace-adjacent route, broadcasting their presence with the kind of confidence that only came from never having been meaningfully challenged.
"Well," Ben said, resigned. "If we're going to do piracy-adjacent intimidation, we might as well pick someone who'll survive it emotionally."
Maris laughed again. "He's going to tell this story for years."
"That's what worries me."
HK-47's voice cut in from the co-pilot's seat. "Observation: Hondo Ohnaka has a ninety-three percent probability of interpreting this encounter as a personal betrayal."
Ben glanced over. "We've never met him."
"Clarification: He will still feel betrayed."
C-3PO, who had been pretending very hard not to listen, finally turned around. "Oh dear. Oh my. You're not seriously considering attacking a known pirate lord, are you? That could have implications."
"We're not attacking," Ben said.
"We're testing," Maris supplied.
C-3PO looked between them, visibly distressed. "I don't like this definition."
Ben pointed at the protocol droid. "No shooting civilians."
C-3PO nodded vigorously. "Oh, good. Yes. That would be quite unacceptable."
"No killing unless necessary."
"Even better!"
"And we leave them capable of complaining loudly afterward."
C-3PO hesitated. "I… suppose that's acceptable?"
HK-47 leaned closer to the droid. "Reassurance: I will complain on your behalf if you are destroyed. Likely because I was not the one to destroy you."
"That is not reassuring!"
Ben sighed, finally inputting the course correction. The fleet adjusted smoothly, two hundred massive warships altering vector as one.
Maris felt the Dark Side stir, eager but contained. This wasn't slaughter. It was theater. Intimidation as policy.
She liked it.
"See?" she said softly. "You're not cruel. You're just… efficient."
Ben didn't look at her as hyperspace shimmered, the next destination drawing closer.
"Someone has to decide what kind of monsters we're going to be," he said. "I'd rather be the ones people survive."
Maris smiled to herself.
For now.
Somewhere ahead, Hondo Ohnaka was about to have a very bad day.
...
Hondo Ohnaka was having a very good day.
This was important. This was rare. This was the kind of day Hondo Ohnaka treasured, bottled, and later sold back to himself at an inflated price.
The hyperspace lanes were clear. His crews were drunk, but not mutinous drunk. The last shipment had been stolen cleanly, efficiently, and—most importantly—from someone richer than him. His flagship's engines purred with that comforting, slightly illegal whine that meant everything was functioning just enough to be plausible in a court of law.
Hondo stood at the center of his bridge, arms spread wide, coat fluttering dramatically for no reason other than ego.
"Ahh," he said, voice rolling like fine Corellian brandy. "You see, my friends? This—this—is how piracy is done. No Jedi. No Sith. No Republic. No Separatists. Just opportunity!"
His first mate nodded politely. His navigator tried not to yawn. Several Weequay were gambling in the corner over whose turn it was to die next.
Hondo continued anyway.
"There are those who say the galaxy is becoming more… complicated," he went on, pacing. "Too many factions. Too many armies. Too many moral absolutes. But Hondo Ohnaka, oh no—Hondo thrives in chaos! Chaos is honest. Chaos is predictable. Chaos always—"
The sensors screamed.
Not beeped. Not chimed. Not politely alerted.
They screamed.
Red lights erupted across the bridge like a festival dedicated entirely to panic. Consoles flashed warnings in languages Hondo had paid extra to not understand. The navigator lurched forward, gripping his station.
"Captain!" someone shouted. "Mass shadow—no—multiple mass shadows—realspace emergence—right on top of us!"
Hondo frowned.
"That is… rude," he decided.
The stars outside twisted—and then space broke.
A ship emerged.
One ship.
It was enormous. Long, brutal, angular. A relic from a war so old even history had started charging rent. A Mandator-class dreadnaught, its hull scarred with time and secrets, drifting forward with the calm confidence of something that had never once questioned its own superiority.
The bridge went silent.
Hondo's mouth opened.
"…Ah."
Then another appeared.
Then another.
Then five.
Hondo's smile returned, strained but present.
"Well! You see, this is still manageable. Five ships is a conversation. Five ships is a negotiation. Five ships is—"
The hyperspace lanes tore open again.
And again.
And again.
The void filled.
Dreadnaughts poured into realspace like a metal tide. Rows upon rows of ancient warships, stretching across the stars in a formation so precise it felt personal. Two hundred Katana Fleet vessels, all waking from their long sleep, all aligning to a single, unified will.
Hondo's sensors went insane.
Literally. One console sparked and died. Another began listing threat probabilities that exceeded one hundred percent. A third simply displayed the word NO before shutting down entirely.
The bridge crew stared.
Hondo stared.
For the first time in a long time, Hondo Ohnaka felt something unfamiliar creeping up his spine.
"…I appear," he said slowly, "to have misjudged the market."
Before anyone could respond, the dreadnaughts moved.
Not aggressively. Not dramatically.
They adjusted position with terrifying grace.
A single volley fired.
Not a barrage. Not a warning shot. One precise, coordinated strike that lanced through space and kissed Hondo's flagship like a lover who knew exactly where to press.
The engines died.
Every light on the bridge flickered, then steadied into emergency crimson. Artificial gravity wobbled, then locked. Weapons systems powered down as if embarrassed to still be installed.
Nothing else was damaged.
No hull breach. No casualties. No secondary explosions.
Just… helplessness.
Hondo swallowed.
"That," he said faintly, "was… surgical."
A chime echoed across the bridge.
Incoming transmission.
The hologram shimmered to life.
A figure stood at the center of the projection—tall, robed in dark, layered armor. A mask concealed his face, smooth and impassive, its lenses faintly illuminated. No dramatic crackle of lightning. No snarling menace.
Just… stillness.
The kind that swallowed rooms.
"Captain Ohnaka," the figure said calmly. His voice was young. Polite. Almost apologetic. "Thank you for taking the call."
Hondo straightened instinctively, smoothing his coat.
"Well!" he replied, forcing cheer into his tone. "You seem to have me at a terrible disadvantage, my friend, but I admire efficiency! Might I ask who has the pleasure of—"
"I am Darth Sol."
Ah.
That explained everything and nothing all at once.
Hondo laughed nervously. "Of course you are! Darths everywhere these days. Very competitive field. Tell me, are you with the old Sith, the new Sith, the secret Sith, or the 'we swear we are not Sith' Sith?"
Darth Sol inclined his head slightly, as if acknowledging a clever point.
"We're not here for your life," he said. "Or your ship. Or your people."
Hondo blinked.
"…You're not?"
"No," Sol replied. "We're here to make a point."
Hondo relaxed just a fraction. "Ah! A point. Yes, those are important. Very educational. Might I ask what—"
"We're testing a fleet."
The words landed softly.
Hondo felt his stomach drop anyway.
"You see," Sol continued, tone conversational, "power is meaningless if it's never exercised. But exercise doesn't require cruelty. Just… demonstration."
The hologram shifted slightly, revealing another figure just at the edge of frame—slender, pale, eyes like knives, expression bored in the way only very dangerous people could manage.
Darth Nox.
She waved lazily.
Hondo waved back without thinking.
"Now," Sol said, "we're going to take something from you."
Hondo's heart leapt. "Ah—well—this is unfortunate, but I am a reasonable man! Credits, cargo, weapons—"
"A story," Sol said.
Hondo paused.
"…A what?"
"A symbol," Sol clarified. "Something small. Something you'll miss just enough to remember today."
There was a brief pause.
Then a soft click echoed on the bridge.
One of Hondo's crew gasped.
Hondo turned.
The flag.
His flag.
The proud, ridiculous banner of Hondo Ohnaka—skulls, blasters, and questionable artistic choices—had vanished from its mount behind the captain's chair.
Replaced by nothing.
Hondo stared at the empty space.
"…You took my flag."
"Yes," Sol said. "We did."
There was silence, as Hondo tired to contemplate how that could have happened, only to come up with 'space magic.'
Then Hondo laughed.
A high, thin sound.
"Oh, you are cruel," he said weakly. "Do you know how much that cost? Custom embroidery!"
Darth Sol inclined his head again.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Captain Ohnaka. No civilian targets. No unnecessary deaths. This was… instructional."
The transmission flickered.
"One more thing," Sol added. "If anyone asks—this never happened."
The hologram vanished.
Outside the viewport, the dreadnaughts disengaged.
Two hundred ancient warships folded back into hyperspace with flawless synchronization, leaving behind only silence… and one very shaken pirate captain.
Hondo stood motionless.
The bridge crew waited.
Finally, he sank into his chair, staring at the empty space where his flag had been.
"…I am suddenly very afraid of teenagers."
...
The Council Chamber of Sundari had always been designed to feel calm.
Smooth white curves. Soft lighting filtered through translucent panels. No sharp corners. No raised dais. No sense of hierarchy beyond mutual responsibility. It was architecture as philosophy—proof that Mandalore had chosen reason over conquest, consensus over conquest, words over weapons.
Satine Kryze stood at the center of it, hands folded behind her back, and felt the lie of it all pressing in from every angle.
The chamber was full.
Councilors lined the walls, some seated, some standing, some pacing with barely contained agitation. Representatives from the districts filled the galleries above, their voices a low, constant murmur that never quite faded. Outside—beyond the transparisteel, beyond the city's controlled serenity—Sundari trembled.
She could hear it, faintly. Even here.
Chanting.
Protests.
Counter-protests.
The citizenship motion had finally reached planetary vote.
It had taken months of debate, legal review, Republic interference, and carefully worded delays. Every argument had been made at least twice, every fear dragged into the light and examined until it either evaporated or hardened into something immovable.
Today, there would be no more delays.
Today, Mandalore would decide whether the clones—engineered soldiers discovered too early for the galaxy's comfort—would be offered full Mandalorian citizenship.
Not as weapons.
As people.
Satine inhaled slowly.
She had known, from the moment she first spoke the words aloud, that this would not end cleanly.
A councilor rose.
"The floor recognizes Councilor Vesh," the moderator announced.
Vesh didn't bother hiding his irritation. "Duchess Kryze," he began, "you frame this as a moral imperative. As compassion. But what you are proposing is a provocation. The Republic already fears us. Granting citizenship to an army—"
"—to individuals," Satine corrected gently.
Vesh's jaw tightened. "—to clones bred for war will be seen as an act of aggression."
Satine met his gaze evenly. "We did not breed them. We did not order them. But they exist. And they will exist whether the Republic is comfortable with that or not."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber.
She continued, voice steady. "We can choose to see them as tools and pretend that absolves us of responsibility. Or we can choose to be Mandalorians—and take responsibility anyway."
Above them, the murmurs grew louder.
Someone shouted. The sound echoed faintly through the chamber's acoustics, distorted but unmistakably angry.
Satine didn't need to look at the feeds to know what they would show.
Banners.
Helmets.
Old symbols dragged out of storage and memory.
Death Watch propaganda had resurfaced in force over the last week—holos plastered across back channels and illegal broadcasts, framing the vote as betrayal. As weakness. As Satine inviting conquest by handing Mandalore an army she could not control.
They had been careful not to say her name too often.
Martyrs needed enemies.
Another councilor spoke. Then another.
Arguments circled each other like wary duelists—security versus ethics, sovereignty versus stability. Satine answered when needed, listened when it mattered, and all the while felt the pressure building, not just in the chamber, but in the city itself.
This wasn't a debate anymore.
It was a fault line.
She felt it shift when the doors opened.
Bo-Katan Kryze walked in without ceremony.
She wore armor—blue, scarred, unapologetic. No helmet, but no attempt to soften herself for the room, either. Conversations faltered. Eyes turned.
Bo-Katan didn't look at the council first.
She looked at Satine.
For a heartbeat, nothing else existed.
Satine felt something tight in her chest loosen, just a little.
Bo-Katan stopped beside her, boots echoing softly against the pristine floor, and faced the council.
"I stand with my sister," she said.
No theatrics. No speech.
Just that.
The chamber erupted.
Councilors shouted. Representatives leaned forward. Someone demanded she be removed. Someone else demanded she be heard. Outside, the chanting spiked, as if the city itself had felt the shift.
Satine closed her eyes for half a second.
She had known this would cost Bo-Katan everything she had left with Death Watch.
And Bo-Katan had done it anyway.
"I was raised on stories of Mandalore's strength," Bo-Katan continued, voice carrying easily over the noise. "Of warriors. Of honor. Of never bowing. But strength without restraint is just violence with better marketing."
A sharp intake of breath somewhere in the chamber.
She didn't stop.
"These clones didn't choose how they were born. Neither did we. If Mandalore can't offer them a home without fearing what that says about us, then we deserve the fear."
Silence fell—not complete, but stunned.
Satine opened her eyes.
For the first time that day, she allowed herself to look to the side.
Obi-Wan Kenobi stood at the edge of the chamber, hands folded into his sleeves, posture composed in the way of a Jedi who had been trained to observe rather than intervene. His face was calm, attentive, and utterly useless.
Not because he didn't care.
Because this wasn't his battle.
She saw it in his eyes—that quiet, aching frustration of someone who could sense the currents but was forbidden from steering the ship. He had argued with senators. Negotiated with ministers. Fought wars.
But here, on Mandalore, watching her gamble their world's future—
He could only watch.
Satine turned back to the council.
The moderator cleared his throat. "The arguments have been heard. The motion will proceed to vote."
The chamber's systems hummed as councilor panels lit up, one by one. Across the city, citizens cast their ballots—public terminals, private comms, homes, streets.
Satine Kryze has done her part.
And now, at the end, all she can do is hope that it was enough.