"Don't panic, Captain. We're not defeated yet. Not by a long shot."

<beep>

"Sir, we have a priority message coming in from Wayland."

<pause>

"Read it, Captain."

"Decrypt is coming in now." <impatient tapping> "The mountain is under attack, sir. Two different forces of natives, plus some Rebel saboteurs." <pause> <looking up> "And a group of Noghri--"

<pain!>

"For the treachery of the Empire against the Noghri people. We were betrayed. We have been revenged."

<silence>

No...

"You've failed me, Captain. And now the Empire dies. Because of you."

"No!"

Captain Pellaeon jolted awake, and despite himself, he was shaking and thoroughly covered in sweat. Taking in the pitch blackness, he was thankful that he was free from the grip of the disturbing dream yet disappointed that he was still imprisoned in his detention cell. He sat up, pulling his knees closer to himself and resting his head against the cell wall.

How long has it been since that fateful day? Three years? Four? He couldn't remember exactly. His recent concussion had made recalling memories somewhat a blur. He only remembered that he dreamed every night and that some nights were worse than others. Sometimes he saw Endor and reenacted the battle that crippled the Empire. Other times he saw Bilbringi and relived its ultimate defeat.

Two of the most pivotal battles occuring in his lifetime. Both with the potential to forever change the course of the galaxy. Both ending in tragedy.

Why? he asked himself. What is it all for? To keep fighting and never win. To survive when everyone else has died. What is the difference? What is the point?

The Empire was breathing its last. Vader was dead. Thrawn was dead. The Emperor and his clones were dead. Now feuding warlords battled each other for the miserable scraps of worlds that were once part of a mighty galactic Empire. And hanging over Duro somewhere, the Chimaera was abandoned. Her crew held hostage, and Captain Pellaeon, at the mercy of a renegade warlord with delusions of grandeur, was awaiting his fate.

Pellaeon had never been one to listen to baseless rumors or idle gossip, deeming such activity as beneath his station. But then people started whispering rather loudly, and he could not help but overhear, especially since the topic concerned himself. They said that only he now had the authority to rule the Empire. At first, he dismissed it as a ridiculous rumor, but then something stopped him in his tracks.

If that was the talk among the Fleet and if they really expected him to take command, then what were the warlords talking about?

Yet Pellaeon had no desire to rule the Empire. Or rule anything else, for that matter. He was a soldier, not an administrator. He wasn't cut out to lead on such a grand scale. He could lead a starship, yes, and even a fleet, but not an empire. He only wished to fight. To take the war back to the Rebels. To restore the Empire to her rightful place in the galaxy.

But it seemed that that was not going to happen any time soon with the warlords clashing at each other's throats and Pellaeon caught in the middle. He never asked for this, yet he was entangled so deeply. The commander to the one who held the fleet together at Annaj. The second-in-command to Grand Admiral Thrawn.

He wasn't entirely sure if he was going to be executed, but the thought certainly never left his mind. After all, what did warlords care about those who posed a threat to their power? Pellaeon sighed heavily. Somehow, that didn’t faze him. After all the years he put into the service of the Empire, Death had become a constant companion, and it wouldn’t be the first time he was staring it in the face. Perhaps now really was his time.

But what about his crew? What would happen to them? Pellaeon could feel his heart sink as he thought about them. Brave souls, every one of them. They had followed Grand Admiral Thrawn to the blackest depths and back. And they would follow him too. To their deaths, if necessary.

Suddenly, the door slid open, derailing his train of thought, and the cell was flooded with an unbearably bright light. Pellaeon reached up to shield his eyes and could barely make out the silhouettes of two figures coming towards him before he felt two pairs of hands grab him and yank him to his feet. The sudden rush of blood throughout his body caused his vision to whirl, and had it not been for the two Stormtroopers holding him up, he surely would have tumbled to the deck.

There were six of them. Two in the front, two in the rear, and two half-pushing him. They said nothing to him, only shoved him through the endless maze of corridors. He recognized part of the layout of a Victory-class Star Destroyer. Older and smaller than the renown Imperator-class Star Destroyers, it was formidable nonetheless.

They led him to a small meeting room that was just off the bridge, where they threw him inside and took up positions on both sides of the door. In the center of the room was a long table and several high-backed chairs, one of which was turned towards the viewport at the opposite end of the room. Pellaeon took in a deep breath, steeling himself.

"Well, Captain, aren't you going to say anything?" a low voice rumbled from the other side of the room. "Are you not going to express your gratitude for my saving your life?"

"And locking me up like a criminal?" he retorted. His voice was cool, but it belied the anger that was burning in his heart. That remark had been a calculated insult. The pompous fool was already trying to assert his superiority over him. But Pellaeon had already decided that he was not going to play this game. He was not going to let the man gain any advantage over him, especially his temper.

The chair swivelled around to reveal a man far overweight than what military regulations would allow. His beady eyes were fixed on Pellaeon, and his smile was wicked, like that of a feline toying with its prey. Amel Teradoc, warlord extraordinaire and pretender to the throne of the Empire. "A precaution, you see. I had to be sure you were who I thought you were."

Pellaeon snorted. Despite himself, he could feel his sarcasm getting the better of him. “And I would have thought that working in the Core Worlds would have taught you how to lie better than that?”

The fat man simply smiled, his eyes drilling holes into Pellaeon's own. Then slowly, he stood to his feet-quite an accomplishment-and walked past the captain. Suddenly, Pellaeon felt something like a rifle-butt slam into the back of his knee, but he managed to catch himself before throwing a glare at the stormtrooper who had materialized behind him.

"You are becoming very insolent, Captain Pellaeon,” Teradoc said disdainfully. “Very unbecoming of an officer of your caliber. I suggest that you would do well to watch your mouth, especially when addressing a superior."

"A superior?" Pellaeon spat. "The last I checked, Amel Teradoc was a captain, absent without leave.”

The pudgy man smiled. Again, that feline smile. “Then I guess that you really should have checked again.” He proudly jutted his chest out, showing off his rank insignia. “As you can see, I’m a High Admiral know, and before you say anything, yes, it is legitimate. Given to me by the Emperor himself when he came back to us on Byss.”

Pellaeon raised his eyebrows. "The Emperor?" He asked incredulously.

"Is that so hard to believe, Captain?" He replied cooly. "Nevertheless, the truth is that I outrank you, so show me some respect."

Pellaeon sighed, his head sagging ever so slightly.

“I didn’t hear you, Captain.”

Pellaeon snapped to attention. His muscles briefly cried out in protest. “Yes, sir,” he grated out.

"Now, you don’t have to ask anything, because I think I already know." The warlord began a slow walk over to Pellaeon. "You want to know what’s going to happen to you. Well, Captain, what I want with you does not necessarily translate to what will happen to you. No, Captain, that depends on your level of cooperation." He stopped in front of Pellaeon, fixing him with a stare before turning around and walking back to his seat.

"I'm sure you're aware of the state of the Empire."

Pellaeon straightened almost a little indignantly, but he held his tongue.

"Fractured and splintered. Pretenders to the throne grabbing whatever worlds and ships they can, each carving out a piece of the Empire to call their own." Teradoc turned around. “You may speak freely, Captain.”

Pellaeon considered his next words carefully. “If you will pardon me, sir, but what makes you any different?”

"Come here, Captain, and take look outside." He beckoned toward the viewport.

Pellaeon eyed him for a moment before crossing around the other side of the table. He did not trust this man as far as he could throw him. And considering how much weight the other man had gained in the past few years... Turning slightly to keep Teradoc at the edge of his peripheral vision, Pellaeon peered outside.

And he felt his lips part in shock. Teradoc forgotton, Pellaeon marvelled at the fleet that met his eyes. Dozens upon dozens of Victory-class Star Destroyers. All painted a deep red like bloodied talons hanging in space. Never had he seen anything like it since the discovery of the Katana Fleet several years ago.

He looked at Teradoc and then back at the fleet and once more. Surely his eyes must be playing tricks on him. The viewport... was it holographic?

"No, Captain, it's real," Teradoc spoke into his silent musings, coming up to his side. "I built that fleet up myself, one ship at a time. All the Victorys they were planning to send to the scrapyard, I did whatever I could to have them diverted over to me.

"Oh, don't get me wrong. Star Destroyers are fine in and of themselves, but we only have so many of them. You can't rely on such a small fleet to take back the galaxy. No, brute force is overrated; real strength lies in numbers. And that is what I have accomplished."

He was close now, almost speaking into his ear. "They're yours if you want them."

The shock that was lingering in his mind at the mere sight of the Victory Star Destroyers now intensified to disbelief. He looked at Teradoc, searching his bloated features for any trace of deceit. This was a trick. It had to be. "Why?" he asked.

Teradoc smiled. “My reasons are my own, but let’s just say that it would be a waste to execute such a fine officer.” He returned to his seat. “If you join me, you will be given an immediate promotion to Vice Admiral. You will also have direct command of my Victory fleet. You will follow my orders. Together, maybe we can build up enough forces to punish our enemies.”

“But what about my crew?” Pellaeon asked. “The survivors from the Chimaera.”

Teradoc paused for a moment. “Yes, them.” He leaned back in his chair. “They’re fine. I’ve already had them scattered among my fleet. But I know who they are. If you decide that joining me is not to your advantage, then I’ll have them brought back here, and you’ll have to watch them die.”

Pellaeon felt his hands curling into fists. “You drive a hard bargain,” he growled.

Teradoc shrugged. “But it’s also more than generous. It’s your choice, Captain.”

Pellaeon glared out the viewport. There must have been over a hundred Star Destroyers out there. And his men were scattered among them. Is this what I am destined to be? he asked himself. A pawn in the hands of my captor. He thought back to his days serving with Thrawn and Vader before him. Was I ever anything else?

He sighed, looking back at Teradoc. Can I ever make a difference?

“Well, Captain?” the fat warlord asked him. “What is your answer?”

The Empire will rise again, High Admiral Teradoc. But the Force as my witness, you will never see it.

“Yes.”

----------

AUTHOR’S NOTES: Well, that’s all, folks! Pellaeon’s character never ceases to fascinate me (and you too, perhaps, if you are reading this fic.) But I always wondered why he was in the service of Teradoc. I figured that it must’ve been something like Daala’s situation with Harrsk. He was forced into it. Well, if you see any continuity errors, I’m sorry, but I haven’t read Dark Empire or the Essential Guide to Characters. But I do hope you enjoyed it.