Coruscant

Admiral Kroth looked down at the report again, then back up at Theren, then back to the report. He seemed to be making some sort of judgment that required a careful comparison of the commodore to the datapad in his hands. “Unless you’re thinking about setting me up with that datapad, I don’t see why this is taking so long,” Theren said sarcastically. “I’ve already been debriefed.”

“Yes,” Kroth said absently, evidently ignoring what Theren was saying. Finally, he looked up. “It would seem that you rather effectively dealt with the situation in the Koornacht Cluster. And garnered us a rather impressive work force… I assume that a proper Imperial industrialization has begun?”

“Do you find it difficult to read?” Theren said in reply, and once again, Kroth did his best to ignore it.

“Needless to say, Imperial Command continues to be impressed by your efforts. You have been extremely successful in your recent endeavors… more successful, I daresay, than anyone else in the fleet.” Kroth set the datapad down after one more look. “The territory you have captured includes Bastion, Dantooine, Kamino, Karfeddion, Belsavis, N’zoth and J’t’p’tan. Quite an impressive list.”

“Yeah,” Theren said, shifting uncomfortably.

“I’ll be frank, Commodore. Your prowess has caught the eye of a number of high-ranking officials, who have begun asking questions about why you are only a commodore. I seek to rectify this situation.” Theren didn’t respond for a moment, and Kroth, perhaps assuming Theren not to have understood, added, “I am offering you a promotion.”

“To what?”

“Rear-Admiral. You will be placed under a new, larger command, and offered more… opportunities, to display your prowess.”

“I see.”

They sat there a moment more, and Kroth further prompted Theren. “Well?”

“Give me a day to think about it.”



In the ranks of the Empire, success did not equate to promotion or esteem. Grand Admiral Thrawn had managed to carve out an immensely impressive holding during his time as a servant of the Empire, yet had never escaped the classification he’d been allotted immediately upon his discovery; non-human. Less than human. Had it not been for the interference of the Emperor, he likely would have been left a captain for most of his life.

Classifications are, in the end, what it amounted to. Aristocrats with no intelligence and no talent were promoted to Vice-Admirals and given grand, symbolic commands to flaunt. Brilliant tacticians born in the slums of Carida commanded Corellian Corvettes. Tornel, Theren’s aide and the son of a wealthy Muunilistian banker, had once elaborated on this.

“You’re – no offense – what they call a low-class person. You weren’t born into the rungs of power. You weren’t even born into a position where the rungs of power were available for you to climb. You don’t have an Imperial accent; you don’t have wealthy, aristocratic, or military parents. That you were a scholar at one point doesn’t help either. You’ve got nothing, in their eyes.” Tornel had been drunk at the time. Theren was well aware that during off-duty periods, Tornel was told and heard things that a man of his rank was not supposed to, as a product of his privileged birth. Alcohol typically loosened his tongue. So, while Theren sipped water with food coloring, Tornel would down shot after shot of brandy.

“Not to mention, you’re Vikar’s pupil – or whatever, maybe you’re not, but they figure you are – so you’re shit out of luck. Especially after that shit at Dantooine. A lot of people liked Shyle, traitor or not, and you brought him down.” He’d taken another sip, chuckling. “It’s all a military power thing. The Emperor wouldn’t have been a part of it when he was alive, and I doubt that most top politicians are, even now. They don’t get it. But it’s a matter of pride that kids born to a low-middle-class Coruscant family don’t rise through the ranks to positions of power.”

So, that was his classification. Low-class. Born poor, raised to be a history teacher, and destined to die poor. Theren knew this, which is why something about a promotion just didn’t gel. He thrust his hands into his pockets as he walked down the hallway; out one window was a view of one of the grand, urban vistas of Coruscant. In the world’s perpetual twilight, it was rather lovely.

He caught himself when he heard his name being muttered, down the hall. Two officers brushed right past him at an intersection of two hallways, barely even noticing him. Without hesitation, he followed them at a distance just close enough to make out the gist of their conversation.

“…Gevel. He’s taken an awful lot of territory…”

“…some politician, some governor here on Coruscant, asking questions about his rank… Kroth didn’t have the guts to tell him why he hasn’t been promoted…” They both chuckled. Theren kept listening.

“…take him out of that position, move him to the outer rim or something, give him a few ships to play with… get him out of the way. Most of all, take those worlds out from underneath his command…”

Theren cursed.



Theren didn’t bother knocking on Kroth’s door before storming in, to the protests of his secretary. Another man, a captain or higher – Theren didn’t take the time to check his rank stripes – sat in front of the Admiral, and was somewhat startled by seeing the skinny, stubble-faced officer enter so abruptly.

“I’ve changed my mind, asshole. I don’t need a day to think about it. Think you can move me out to the fucking rim, remove me from my position of power, get me out of the way, do you? You can shove that promotion right up your fucking ass, sideways. And while you’re at it –”

“Mister Gevel!” Kroth thundered in protest.

“—and while you’re at it, you can tell the rest of your friends in Imperial Command to go fuck themselves.”

“You are addressing a superior officer!” Kroth shouted angrily. “I’ll have you court marshaled, you insubordinate little mongrel. How dare you speak to me like this. You are just like Vikar – all bluster and no class.”

No class. “You go ahead and try that, Admiral.” Theren scowled. “Remember? The politicians love me. You’re just a pawn to them, same as me. I’m not some upstart from the ass-end of Coruscant anymore. I’m a galactic figure, remember?” Theren smirked, and added, “And tell your idiot friends to watch their words while they’re walking around here; you never know who might be listening.”



Kamino

“I take it that it didn’t go particularly well with Kroth,” Tornel said on the Kaminoan landing pad, as Theren descended from his shuttle, pulling his trench coat about him tightly in the cold wind. “You’re early.”

“Yeah,” Theren said, following his aide towards the entrance to the large, domed facility before them. Only a few hundred meters below, raging water crashed in the perpetual storm of Kamino. “You could say that.”

They finally stepped inside. “What happened?”

“They offered me a promotion.”

Tornel did a double take, feigning surprise. “Really.”

“Really.”

“You accepted, I hope,” Tornel said, rather insincerely.

“Fuck no. Are you kidding?” Theren smirked as they continued down the obscenely clean, white halls. “Not only didn’t I accept, but I screamed obscenities at the Admiral.”

Tornel smacked his forehead. “I should have known.” They both chuckled, the ribbing accepted as brotherly. “Trying to move you to the outer rim, remove you from command of your fiefdom, here?”

“Yeah. You’ve seen this before.”

“A few times.”

They continued in silence for a moment, emerging into one of the great glass hallways that Kamino’s cloning facilities were known for. It stretched through one of the cloning chambers, with stormtroopers clearly visible throughout it, in various stages of developmental progression. “Cloning certainly has come a long way. All this in a few months.”

“Yeah,” Tornel agreed, directing his superior’s attention forward, where a white-skinned, spindly-legged lanky creature gracefully paced towards them. He bowed first to Tornel, and second – more deeply – to Theren.

“I am most pleased to make the acquaintance of Commodore Gevel,” the being said, it’s voice smooth. “Lieutenant Tornel has said much about you, and tales of your exploits are already becoming legend.”

Theren nodded respectfully.

“Commodore Gevel, as you can see, the army that you requested is well on its way to completion. Already, many units have been completed and are battle ready, preparing for your inspection.” The Kaminoan motioned for the two Imperial officers to follow him. “The warriors you provided from Karfeddion as cloning samples have proven most impressive, and the Yevethan slaves have improved progress and proven to be adept at creating excellent equipment.”

Theren nodded. “And the modifications I requested?”

“Have come along quite well. In addition to having the unique genetic patterns of the Karfeddion warriors, which has allotted them a great amount of skill, particularly in mathematics – which translates to improved fighting in urban areas, our studies have shown – the Yevethan-made armor has been improved greatly, as have the blasters they’d made. Because we have been allowed to concentrate on these units more closely instead of mass-producing them, we have been able to perfect them. You will likely only have a few thousand units to begin with, but that will be enough.” The being smiled. “Our rate of production will be slower, but worth it, I assure you.”

“That is what I have hoped for. And the color I requested, I see, has been implemented.”

“Yes. Typically we outfit our soldiers with color-neutral equipment, but your request was implemented. It was an unconventional decision, I will admit, but we fill the orders of our clients to the letter.”

And it was true. Looking out the transparisteel windows, it was instantly apparent; the legions of troopers before them all bore what appeared to be regulation Stormtrooper armor, but for one modification. All were a crimson, bloody red.

Theren smiled.





Theren paced around the room of soldiers, nodding slowly to himself. They were exemplary units. Suspended at the front of the room were empty suits of their armor, which was shot with a rifle, whose blast it held without breaking despite considerable damage.

The trooper heading the demonstration commented, in a monotone voice, “The rifles we have been provided allow increased accuracy and rate of fire. Individually, it would be only mildly significant, but when taken into account in a squad situation, the advantage is considerable.

Theren paid only moderate attention as he continued to pace around the room, inspecting his soldiers. They stood silently, straightly, not moving as he passed.

Tornel, beside him, whispered, “Why the color?”

Theren smiled. “Remember when you told me about the classification I was given by Imperial military aristocrats?”

Tornel winced in embarrassment at his loose tongue. “Yes.”

“Everyone gives classifications. To everything. Stormtroopers have been seen everywhere, as have Star Destroyers. Though they are certainly intimidating, they no longer strike the fear into the hearts of our enemies they once did. To give our forces a distinctive look provides that element of fear. They’re instantly classified by our enemies, even unconsciously, as a force to be reckoned with. Especially after we put them through their paces and show the galaxy what they’re capable of.” Theren walked to the front of the room, and immediately, the chatter of the demonstration fell silent.

“I am Commodore Theren Gevel, of the Galactic Empire, whom you serve, were created to serve, and will serve until the day you die.” Theren fell silent for a moment, smirking. The speech was all prepared, of course. “You are not normal Stormtroopers; you are better than normal Stormtroopers. You wear red, the color of battle, and you will strike fear into the heart of your foes. You are the Legionnaires.”

Theren saluted, and every one of them followed suit.

Bastion

The meeting of the Bastion Conclave was three days later, set, as always, on Bastion. The miniature tribunal was small, yet formed the core government of the worlds Theren Gevel had conquered. It had been set up in a makeshift manner, created very basically out of necessity, yet in time it had become known as the primary authority in the Bastion territories. So, Theren had made it official that it was; he’d given it a semi-democratic identity (purely for the purpose of appeasing the public), and made its existence known officially.

Each member represented his world, from an official perspective. In reality, each one dictated the orders of Theren Gevel to his world, and bent the pseudo-democratic political systems of their planets to the whims of the Empire. In the end, everyone could be bought, and the politicians of the Bastion Conclave were little more than pawns.

Cris Kellis, the Lieutenant-Governor of Karfeddion, was busy speechmaking. “Obviously, the citizens of Karfeddion were rather impressed by your –” he nodded to Theren “—display of propaganda, over the Kamino issue. Resistance has fallen twelve percent this week alone.”

Theren nodded. “You can sit down, Lieutenant-Governor. To be clear, the Conclave meetings don’t need to be formal. We’re the ruling council of a sizable portion of territory, and we’re all on the same side. Just state your opinions.

Kellis nodded, appearing somewhat relieved. “Well, we could use more Stormtroopers for garrison. Essentially, the uprising left a small sect of people rather displeased with the way things went. Fanatics.”

Theren stood, nodding his agreement. “This is a problem, throughout the Empire. There are always groups of people who splinter off from the normal public, who fanatically resist our occupation. Every government has this problem, really; it’s difficult to escape. You can’t please everyone, propaganda or no propaganda.”

The Lieutenant-Governors nodded their assent to this obvious truth, and Theren continued. “As you may have heard, from our esteemed Lieutenant-Governor of Kamino, my people have been working on a project in co-operation with the Kaminoan cloners. In a sense, it is a way of giving the Bastion Conclave its own identity; its own classification. Our own classification.” That intrigued them, Theren could see. Behind him, a hologram appeared, featuring one of the Legionnaires. “This, Mr. Kellis, will be your reinforcement; a Stormtrooper all our own, created with materials from our sectors and superior to any trooper in the Imperial corps. Kaminoan cloning technology, Yevethan blasters and armor, Karfeddion cloning subjects. The best we have to offer.”

The men nodded. Kellis spoke up. “They’re red.”

“No shit,” Theren said. “Psychologically, red is the most intimidating of colors. It’s the color of blood, and the color of war. And, after we’ve demonstrated the might of these soldiers – Legionnaires, they’re called – anyone who isn’t intimidated by the color will be intimidated by the reputation. They’re instantly identifiable, even on a crowded battlefield. And the will strike fear into the hearts of our enemies.”

The men stared dumbstruck by Theren’s speech, eyes focused on the hologram. Theren was conscious of his ability to make a speech; it came naturally, as did all language to him. Kellis was the first to break out of his stupor. “You mentioned a demonstration.”

Theren smirked. “Yes. Tornel, go ahead.” His aide immediately emerged from the shadowy edges of the room to begin distributing small datapads. “Your datapads have information on the world known as Duro. It’s an alien world, populated by the ancestors of the Neimoidians. I assume most of you have heard of it, but in case any of you are any dumber than you look…”

“Yeah,” Kellis said.

“To most of you, this should be fairly basic, by now. We’re going to move in, circumvent the enemy fleet, land troops with drop ships, and hit the defenders from behind. It isn’t very difficult, but I’ll be expecting each of you to spare me a detachment of your defense forces to do it.” Though Theren went about the meeting as though it was routine, in truth, it was the first time the Bastion Conclave had contemplated to act militarily.

The Conclave had come together through a string of crises, arising one after another, devious plots unraveled by Gevel’s cunning, his military and political savvy. But this time, no such crisis motivated them; merely basic expansionist principles. “Duro’s surface is uninhabited, covered in automated construction facilities. Once captured, they’ll be upgraded by Yevethan slaves. The orbital cities will need to be directly taken.”

What Theren didn’t say – perhaps because he didn’t have to – was, ‘By any means necessary.’



Theren entered the hospital room slowly, stepping around the bed without making a sound. On it, lay the still, almost-lifeless body of Vice-Admiral Vikar. The man breathed shallowly, rhythmically. “He hasn’t woken up for days,” the nurse said. “The doctors don’t know when he’ll come out of it.” She looked down at the old man sadly.

The commodore glared at her, and she left quickly. He sat down beside the man, and, knowing that he couldn’t hear him, began to speak. He’d been doing this for the past few days; he knew that, once Vikar awoke – if he ever did – he wouldn’t remember a word that was said. But, somehow, it comforted him. “We’re moving on Duro, tomorrow at the earliest, the day after that at the latest. This has all become so routine, Admiral. I’m beginning to wonder if this isn’t the pinnacle of my service in the Empire. But of course, I know it is; I know that I will never be promoted. I know that the fat fuckers in Imperial High Command will never see beyond what I’ve been classified as. I’ve been talking about this with Tornel a lot lately. Our classifications define who we are to others, and if appearance is reality, then the opinions others form of us can become reality. How the fuck is that fair? It seems like every day I am damned to what I’ve been –”

Theren was just rambling, now. Whatever came to mind, he let spill forth, talking like a man possessed. It was cleansing, in a way, and yet deeply unsettling, in another. “—and these fucking aliens, I don’t even know. I defeat them at Kamino and they just keep rebelling and rebelling until I finally have to engineer some sort of fucking crisis to take care of five of them. You won’t believe –”

On and on.



In another wing of the same Bastion hospital, Lieutenant David Tornel was visiting someone else. This wing, unlike the pristine, beautiful section that Vikar slept soundly in, was cold, dark, desolate, and almost abandoned, except for a legion of tired-looking nurses and doctors who looked like they hadn’t slept in years.

Kieryn sat, by herself, in a small, undecorated room, lit only by the pale light of Bastion’s suns. The rays of that sun had dimmed, after the battle of Bastion. She was on the floor, a small pot in front of her.

Seeing this, and not wanting to intrude, Tornel stood at the doorway for a moment before coming in, watching her. Slowly, but surely, the pot lifted off the ground, shakily defying gravity like a small, struggling bird. Tornel stared. He recalled what she’d said to him; that Moraei had given her a ‘gift’, of sorts, one that was also a curse. Somehow, he’d found a way to give her the power of the Force.

The pot crashed to the ground, splintering. Obviously, a limited power of the Force. “Come in,” Kieryn said. Tornel, almost instinctively, did so, taking a seat in the chair inside the room. Since her rather overt sexual advances before Tornel’s departure to fight at N’zoth, these meetings had become increasingly uncomfortable, but this had not deterred the man. He felt responsible for Kieryn’s plight, and was determined to help her – whether she wanted help or not.

“You made me lose my concentration,” Kieryn said, standing slowly. She sat down on the edge of the bed, fixing him with an intent stare. “And you’re not even sorry.”

Tornel winced. She could read his thoughts. “I’m –” he stopped himself. It was a reflex to say sorry, even after it had been pointed out that he was not. Dealing with Kieryn was like walking on eggshells, as dealing with any mental patient was; you had to be careful what you said, apologize profusely when something went awry. Yet with Kieryn, you had to be careful what you thought, as well.

“Why do you keep coming here?” Kieryn asked.

Somewhat startled by the question, Tornel looked at the woman for a minute before answering. Usually, their meetings were punctuated by long periods of silence, and interspaced by either whimsical or (depending on Kieryn’s mood) nonsensical conversation. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t,” Tornel said, annunciating the words clearly. “And don’t give me that mind reading shit, because if you think I do, then your skills have failed you.”

Kieryn snorted. “You don’t even know why you’re here? No, I suppose you don’t. It’s so unconscious, to you. So unconscious. You come here because you feel you must. You feel responsible. But why?”

Tornel shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“No, of course you don’t. It’s because, since you were a little boy, rich men you didn’t know have showered you with praise and lauding, and you didn’t know why. As you grew up, you began to understand why; your parents were rich, and thus, you were too. You were an aristocrat, born into a world where anything you wanted was yours. But did you deserve this? Not to your knowledge. So you feel that you have to find a way to deserve it. Prove to yourself that you do.”

Tornel sat, stunned, staring at her.

“So you help others, those you feel to be – less than you. The unfortunate. You help your friend, Theren. You feel that you must be the knight in shining armor, because of –” she chuckled, and narrowed her eyes, as if having read something extremely stupid in a child’s journal, “—the classification you have been given, and that you give yourself. And that you give others.”

More silence.

“Get the fuck out,” Kieryn said, pointing to the door, and turning back to her pot. This was the ending point of all their meetings, and they all ended the same way; ‘Get the fuck out.’

Clearly, the woman was insane. But inside, Tornel knew she was at least partially right.

Classifications.

Duro System

The world of Duro was classified as a highly evolved planet, a world where society had spent so long building and progressing that it had transformed beyond recognition, beyond resemblance of the average human world. As such, certain ideas were always garnered about it; that it could not be dealt with in the typical sense, that human subjugation methods would not be effective.

Theren, of course, tossed these petty classifications aside. He had already done his research on the world; he knew its history. He knew the identity of the Duros people. They were, in so many ways, very much like humanity; they were among the earliest space travelers. They were explorers and conquerors. They had racial prejudices ingrained into their society.

But, in Theren’s opinion, the most telling aspect of their history was their affinity for capitalism. Yes, indeed, he reflected, the most sure way to discover the nature of a people is to understand their political principles. And for the Duros, their right-winged nature declared to Theren all he needed to know. They had valued their own monetary system for thousands of years or more, selling and buying and counting until their world had stopped – but they kept going, building cities in the sky and continuing their capitalism. Classifications be damned, the Duros were more like human beings than even they were prepared to admit.

The Zenith fleet arrived in the Duro system one day after Theren’s meeting with the comatose Vikar, an arrival that was utterly unannounced, completely unexpected. Tthey were met only by a small defensive fleet, making even the paltry force that had defended N’zoth on behalf of the Duskhan League seem large in comparison.

Theren watched as they slowly crept into range, the enemy force hailing them. “They wish to speak to you, sir,” one of the communications officers said. Gevel nodded his assent, and a small, blue Duros appeared before him.

“What in the name of Duro is this?” The little man exclaimed in broken Basic, clearly enraged. “Duro has been a sovereign world since the fall of the Empire –”

Theren smiled. “There was no fall of the Empire. Only a temporary hiatus.”

The Duros fumed. “In the name of the Duro Senate, I order you to depart from this system immediately, or you will be fired upon.”

Theren shook his head. “Cut the transmission,” he muttered, and the man disappeared. “Open a channel to all vessels, and the planet itself. All cities should be included.” The communications officer nodded. “This is Theren Gevel, Governor of the Bastion Conclave and Commodore of the Imperial Navy. You are hereby ordered to surrender your vessels and your world to the Empire; shut down your ion reactors, disengage your weapons and you will be spared.”

And then, the battle began.



The drop ship, despite being a vessel designed to ferry mass amounts of soldiers, was cramped. The red-armored Stormtroopers stood silently, without complaint or motion, despite the circumstances. Throughout the bay, laserfire could be heard. Out one of the small viewports, on of the Legionnaires watched the drop ship break through one of the magnetic containment fields, blasting into the city below.

This orbital city greatly resembled a real city; it possessed buildings and towers that rose above smaller civilian homes. It was layered, as any planetary metropolis was; it resembled a small Coruscant. Unlike a real city, however, when one looked to the sky, they saw a great durasteel dome covered in lights. Thus, despite the brightness of these lights, it was far darker in this city than in the terrestrial equivalent.

The dropship touched down, and the landing plank lowered. The Legionnaires rushed from the ship, immediately beginning to lose cover fire on whatever they would be meeting.

They divided into units almost on instinct, and rushed down specific streets. Duros soldiers rushed to meet them, falling almost instantly as the Legionnaires fire overwhelmed them, if not by volume then by accuracy.



Theren stepped towards the tactical display. Several of the enemy ships had surrendered quickly, the others had begun to break formation under the onslaught of the Imperial craft. “Move this cruiser forward, full throttle. Turn them relative west, concentrate fire on that Marauder Corvette,” Theren ordered.

Tornel tapped him briefly on the shoulder, startling him as his concentration broke. “The Legionnaires are reporting easy victories in five cities,” the aide said, gesturing to the planetary map, which showed over three hundred orbital cities, at least ten of which had been invaded by Imperial troops. “They’re requesting orders.”

Theren smirked. “Intimidation. Order them to kill public officials on sight, and destroy a moderate amount of infrastructure.”

Tornel nodded. “Typical Imperial tactics.”



The Legionnaire rushed down the street, rifle clutched in hand, and trained on the enemy. He ducked behind a building with the rest of his squad, peering around the corner fearlessly. Down the street, barely visible in the artificial night of the city, a group of enemy soldiers were establishing a makeshift bunker. They’d set up a variety of debris to provide cover from the Imperial pnslaught.

The Legionnaire gestured the other members of his squad forward, and they burst from their cover like water from a breaking dam. They rushed forward, rifles in hand and firing random, covering shots at the enemy. The enemy soldiers, Duros all, began to fire back, but the Legionnaires continued to run forward. One of them was shot in the shoulder, but he kept running forward, firing, his armor holding.

The mortified Duros leapt out the opposite side of their bunker, despite orders to the contrary audible as they were barked by their commander. Even as they retreated, the red-armored Stormtroopers fired into their backs.



“They’re offering surrender,” Tornel said.

Theren nodded, slowly. “In a moment.”

He stared at the tactical display for a minute more, before saying, “That city, there. The small one. How many residents, would you say are on it?”

“A few hundred thousand.”

He nodded. “Good. Move the Zenith forward and order all gunners to fire on it. Bomb the shit out of it, but don’t destroy it.”

Slowly, the massive Reign-Class Star Destroyer crept forward through space, towards one of the massive hulks of metal that orbited Duro. It was, from a distance, nothing like a city; only a chunk of durasteel in space. Within it, however, deals were being bartered, money was being counted, and citizens were going about their daily lives.

In a heartbeat, that changed, as the emerald lightning of turbolaser fire lanced out from the Zenith, striking the city and causing small fires to erupt all over it. Great sections of the long structure were consumed, before Theren finally ceased the bombardment.



Centeguard, Duro Capital

“The resistance has been largely quelled by the Legionnaires,” Tornel said. The grand, spacious office didn’t suit Theren, but it was fine, temporarily.

“Good. And what about the businesses? They’ve been bought off?”

“Yes, sir. Most business leaders have been convinced to stay and support the Empire.”

“Some haven’t?”

Tornel shrugged.

“Have the rest of them killed, then,” Theren said bitterly. He looked out the window, over the large orbital city, which smoldered only slightly from the past days’ events. “And increase the Legionnaire garrison as soon as possible. No bullshit from these people. Martial law until further notice.”

Tornel nodded.

Theren shook his head at the sniveling man. “No, I will not remove the Legionnaires from your city. If your child species needs to be coaxed into compliance, then my soldiers will be there to do it. If you have a problem with that, go fuck yourself.”

The man was, clearly, stunned. He sat in silence for minutes, staring at Gevel. “And what of me? And my friends? We were once leaders of this world. Will we not be allowed to keep our posts?”

Theren snorted. “Aliens? Govern an Imperial world? I don’t think so.”

Classifications.