Despayre was the capital of the Jutraalian Empire, and accordingly, it had the highest concentration of military personnel and defenses. The problem with this is they were in all the wrong places.

Nearly all the eyes of High Command were facing towards the battles at hand, making every attempt to drive back the Imperial foe and restore their Empire to the glory it had once been.

Desapyre itself was a populated world, yet it was very diverse. Savannahs gave way to forests, the forests gave way to lakes, and the lakes gave way to meadow, which finally gave way to the cities and ports of the Jutraalian capital.

And there to defend it was the Grand Inquisitor.

Above Despayre he had made a particulary extravagant entrance, his personal warfleet, the Third and Sixth, arriving to the tune of march music and fireworks. Civilian craft were everywhere along the parade, their crews and passangers dancing and laughing. The Might of Jutraal had come.

***
<!--EZCODE ITALIC START--> Aboard the Imperial Jutraalian flagship<!--EZCODE ITALIC END-->

" My Lord, all is in order."

" Excellent."

The white haired, red tuniced, and black jackpuhred officer turned from the bow viewpanes strode down the catwalk, without a word. His head was high and his face expressionless.

Everything was proceeding according to plan.

The people of Desapyre, indeed all of the Jutraalian Inner Systems, were stalwart patriots and loyal unquestioningly to the reigning monarchy. Each and everyone of them, no matter class or wealth or social standing, from prisoner to aristocrat, was willing to lay down his or her life in the name of the Empire.

Speechs and such, rallies, and parades, were not needed to create this fervent loyalty.

They would, however, bolster it.

Thus it was the Grand Hall, a massive structure over a kilometer wide and five kilometers deep that the first War Assembly was held. Massive black banners with the Jutraalian Imperial Crest emblazoned on their center in white flew from every lamp post and board. Columns of grey armored stormtroopers stood about as guards, their ceremonialcombat awards painted onto their left shoulderboards. PeFaunae and Fleet troopers milled about, their jackboots polished and uniforms immaculate. The officers and decorated enlisted men wore their medals upon their chests, beaming proudly when asked.

Imperial songs and planet anthems played in the halls and over loudspeakers in lavatories and dining areas.

Throughout the massive arean were over million people could sit and see the speaker were civilians. Tall and short, of every colour and race stood about conversing with those they did not know, or reminiscing with those they did. The mood was jovial, the undertone unmistakeable. They were there to become enraged.

Enraged they did become toop. Hours and hours of propaganda and ceremonies. Exhortations of the troops and revilement of the enemy. At the end of the nigh they were all ready not only to die for their Empire, but to kill for it as well.

Memories were oft the harbinger of incomplete sanity. The remembrance of pain and death would drive men to their greatest abilities and the nadir of common acceptance. Sanity and pure villainy hung in the balance of time.

Thus was so with the Viscount Ierin del Forza, now commander of a Flottgruppe and the Jutraalian Grand Inquisitor, who was at one time in his life a soldier of the Corellian Defense Forces. Upon completion of his first year at the Corellian Martial Academy, he and his brother cadets were forced into active duty to defend the world of Hyll, just outside the Corellian System during the Imperial Civil War. The world had been deemed held when the rogue Imperial troops landed, and so all available personnel were thrown into the cauldron of fire.

On the world there was only one defensible continent, and that was where the Imperials had struck. Along a seventy-seven kilometer front in the south, the Seventeenth Army Group was holding a static defense line. Along it was where the Viscount’s class had been stationed, commanding the companies of the 17th Heavy Infantry Division.

The attack had come swiftly and mercilessly, shells raining down from the sky and from projectile cannon beyond. Officers were in the line with their men, brandishing pistols and some ancient steel swords emblazoned with their family crests. The Viscount was one such officer. The Imperial came in under their creeping barrage and assaulted the Corellians, moving in with a wild banshee-like war cry. Their numbers were continually halved as automated laser emplacements and heavy repeating blaster cut them down until only a scant few soldiers remained to flee.

Flee they did, but they returned. With them were hover tanks and tracked armored behemoths that could crush the breastworks dug by the defenders. Accordingly, previously unused anti-armor weapons opened up and dealt with some of the armor. What was not destroyed rolled over the trenches to the rear, where they would be met by the army group’s reserves. Following immediately behind them was the Imperial infantry, whose eyes were filled with rage and zeal. The battle ceased to be modern and degenerated into armed hand to hand combat.

The black uniformed Imperial troops leapt into the trenches, and with bayonets at the ends of their blaster rifles proceeded to impale as many Corellians on them as they could. The defenders, however, we not quite defenseless. They punched kicked and shot the enemy at point blank range.

“ Give em the steel boys!!!!” the Viscount yelled, drawing his family weapon, its golden hilt shining what sun made it through the pall of battle smoke. “ Charge!!!”

The Corellians rolled out of their trenches and attacked the Imperials that had not yet made it into the trenches and gave them the battle for their life. Weapons fire fell from ranges of ten meters, no man crouching or aiming. The attackers and defenders fired from the hip, the entire battalion joining in the Viscount’s charge.

The officers gave it to the enemy as well. Swords became bloody for the first time in centuries. Hundreds of men were killed in most horrid fashions and even more de-limbed or decapitated. The battle became so intense that artillery from both sides opened up, showering the field indiscriminately, all sides being hit by friendly fire. Clumps of men were sent into the sky as 28 centimeter projectile batteries fired without pause.

Thousands were killed before the Imperials withdrew.

The world was held and the warlord-lead Imperials withdrew their claim to the planet.

Over seven hundred thousand bodies littered the fields and many more would return home with the wounds of war.

From that day forward, the Viscount Ierin del Forza would always remember the look in a man’s eyes as he was killed. Henceforth, he would remember the lessons learned.

Forever more, he would unconsciously stroke s significant portion of his upper arm that had been filled with plastic to replace what had been cleaved by an Imperial captain wielding a vibroknife.

* * *

The memory of that day passed, the Viscount woke in a cold sweat in his elaborate quarters aboard the Jutraalian Eclipse-class flagship. The Viscount rubbed his arm, and then donned his red and black uniform.

Today he would hold a conference on fixed defenses.

The war had since ceased between the Empire and the Jutraalians. The Galactic Defense Initiative had been all but defeated. That did not mean, however, that old threats would not resurge and new enemies would not arise.

It was with that in mind, that the Supreme Inquisitor of the Jutraalian Empire was permantly assigned the his post at Despayre. He was dispatched with haste at the Emperor's call or his own whim, but it was to the capitol he returned.

To handle the task of defending the capital, and in reqard for a fruitful career, a direct order from the Emperor elevated the Viscount del Forza from the rank of Admiral of the Fleet to Grand Admiral of the Jutraalian Fleet, a rank shared with only four other men. And one woman.

A ceremony fitting the Supreme Inquisitor was planned, and executed.

* * *

Processional Music resounded through the halls of the Imperial Jutraalian Palace. Every servant and aide had donned his best attire for the momentous ceremonial occasion at hand: the promotion of the Supreme Inquisitor to the highest position in the Admiralty.

The massive palace, as expansive as the Palace on Coruscant was tall and wide, took up the size of a small city. Only a portion of it was dedicated to the living quarters of the Emperor. The remaining space was dedicated to living space for the staff, aides, and guards that kept the High Command running. Over a thousand officers attended the Emperor as advisors and aides on all things military. There was a representative of every theatre, every sizeable command, every branch, every fleet, and every controlled or garrisoned world. Every one of them had the white trouser stripe of the Great Jutraalian General Staff. They were masters of strategy and tactics and exercised an operational autonomy which created maximum efficiency. They were not governed by the state or bothered by the capricious whims of a Supreme Warlord; only those who had seen battle and breathed the air of command issued orders.

The palace, despite its dual function, did not lack regality in any area: it was rumored that the closets were decorated with gold trim. Dignitaries and functionaries of every kind were hosted there, and there was certainly no dearth of space for it. The Throne Room was an expansive complex in and of itself, easily two hundred meters in length from one end to the other, and at least twenty meters from ceiling to floor. It was there that the cermony for the promotion would take place.

The throne itself was a black cushioned chair studded with rubies to accent the glowing red eyes of the Emperor. Carmine carpet ran the length of the hall from the Throne to the cathedral-like entranceway.

On either side of the wide carpet stood a plethora of people, all the peers of the now Grand Admiral del Forza. Among them were Admirals, Inquisitoriate officers, Army Generals and Marshals, members of the Jutraalian aristocracy, and dignitaries of every kind.

At the head of the uniformed throng of people sat the Emperor and the five officers ranked Grand Admiral. Next to them on opposite sides were two dark figures who ranked Lord Admiral, a position just below Grand Admiral in naval stance but possessing greater political clout.

" Attention! Admiral of the Fleet Ierin Viscount del Forza, Supreme Inquisitor of the Jutraalian Empire, Officer Commanding, Third and Sixth Fleets."

A tall PeFauna at the entrance bellowed an introduction, and a thousand heels came together. Non military officials stood straight and proud, almost blending in with their battle hardened neighbors.

Two doors parted, each moved by two Fleet troopers in ceremonial regalia. Standing at the entrance in an almost mystical glow created by the sunset through a great processional hall beyond the Throne Room, was the Viscount. His uniform was typical of him, a red tunic, black breeches, and a polished pair of jackboots. Below his rank plaque sat four badges of office, two of his Corellian noble standing and two Jutraalian decorations. The uniform he donned was ceremonial, and was thus replete with black shoulder straps, under which ran several white shoulder cords.

Under the Viscount's left arm was the peaked cap that was worn by all flag officers during ceremonial occasions. As an Inquisitoriate officer, his had a red top with a black band and silver emblem of the Empire. Atop it was the double headed iron eagle, symbolizing the Jutraalians as a people. One head was for peace, the other: war.

The lights had flashed on from dozens of media recorders: every ceremonial event on Despayre was watched by many people. At the commencement of the Imperial March, the Viscount strode, his face emotionless, towards the Emperor.

He stopped a meter from the foot of the Throne.

The Emperor nodded and raised his head with a rightly earned haughty precision. He walked down the eight stairs to the floor and stood directly ahead the Viscount, who did not even blink.

" You are my Supreme Inquisitor. You have served the Empire loyally for many years. My faith in you is unquestionable. As is yours in this Empire. For your zeal and near fanaticism in the pursuit of our enemies, you have been made head of all Internal Security. As a reward for your abilities as a commander of men and warships, I invest in you the title of Grand Admiral."

The Emperor extended his left arm, where Grand Admiral Taekkle handed him a black and gold sceptre. It was the baton of office.

The Emperor placed the baton in the Viscount's hand. The Viscount immediately took it, and slowly placed it at his side. After that, he bowed low and took a knee, the formal salute to his Sovereign.

The Emperor bade him rise, and he complied.

The two exchanged barely noticeable cordial nods, and the Supreme Inquisitor spun on his heel. He held the baton in his right and held it high in a salute.

The crowd cheered.

So did the Viscount, inside. Outside, it was merely one more pillar in his steps to defend his home, for now he had the full support of the Fleet.