The unparalleled ratio of utilized to free space within the enormous, Death Star-like station—seemingly gnawed by some colossal beast—once an inhabited sphere and now the headquarters of the Dominion's regular fleet, exerted an oppressive weight through its sheer mass and enigma.
Equally oppressive was the realization that in the spacious conference hall, chosen by Gilad for the meeting with all rear admirals, commodores, commanders of fleet formations, the Grand Moff and his clones responsible for the operation of the Dominion Defense Fleet, representatives of the ground forces' command, and numerous other senior officers, there was nowhere for him to hide from the wary and openly irritated gazes.
He sat at the head of a separate table, watching as the invited attendees took their seats in the amphitheater-style chairs arranged directly before him, looming over his consciousness and conscience.
Gilad sensed the calm demeanor of the rear admirals seated to his right: Shohashi, Dorya, and I-Gor.
Nor was he unaware of the slight unease felt by Grand Moff Ferrus, seated to his left, who toyed with a code cylinder, deftly twirling it between his fingers.
But, frankly, what weighed on him most was the massive empty chair between him and Ferrus.
An exact replica of the very chair that stood on the bridge of the under-repair Chimaera (as was the case with most of the regular fleet's starships).
A seat reserved, per protocol, for such meetings for Grand Admiral Thrawn.
Yet, as fate would have it, at this first general assembly of the Dominion's commanders and senior officials, that chair remained empty.
No one had draped it in a dark shroud, as had been done with Palpatine's throne in the Imperial Palace on Coruscant.
No one insisted that Gilad, as Thrawn's direct successor, take that seat and lead the meeting.
The wound of the loss was still too fresh.
Moreover, those present in the hall would likely perceive it as wholly inappropriate, especially considering that during the time it took the regular fleet, with its numerous trophies, to reach their basing locations, the ship and formation commanders had been kept in the dark about what had transpired on the bridge of the Chimaera.
Now, they felt somewhat deceived, insulted, and slighted.
The being (well, fine, not a human, but a Chiss) who had recruited them into service was, at this moment, dead.
Killed by treacherous Republicans at the zenith of his glory and power.
And Gilad had concealed it all from them.
He had not allowed three New Republic sector fleets to be reduced to burning wreckage adrift in space.
Instead, he had dragged them all back to the metropolitan core, and now, essentially, pitted them against one another.
Half of those seated before him were loyal directly to the Dominion.
They were calm, observing the unfolding events with silent indifference.
They awaited information to be delivered to them.
But an equal number were unafraid to speak plainly—they demanded answers.
They wanted to know why they had been kept in the dark about the Grand Admiral's fate.
They wanted to know what considerations had prompted the retreat.
They wanted to understand—did Gilad have a PLAN?
Because without a clear vision for leading the fleet and the Dominion, or for shaping internal and external policies, Pellaeon was no leader, no commander, no warlord.
Merely condensation on the cooling pipes of a ship's refresher.
"Thank you all for gathering here," Gilad coughed into his fist, feeling the weight of hundreds of eyes upon him.
Each gaze was unique, yet uniformly unwelcoming.
The sole vice admiral took large gulps of water from a crystal-clear glass, then placed the nearly empty (how did he manage that so quickly?!) container on the edge of the table.
"I assume you are all aware of what transpired on the Chimaera," the vice admiral began, only to be interrupted by Captain Reder, who rose to his feet.
"Sir, with all due respect, why did we learn of these events through the Dominion's official press release rather than, as is proper, from the junior flag officer immediately upon assuming command?"
"Derr, may a sarlacc take you, what a time to play the fool," Gilad thought angrily.
Such outright insubordination demanded a response.
No one and nothing was permitted to interrupt a superior officer unless it concerned urgent and critical matters of subordinate safety or entrusted property.
"Sit down, Captain Reder," Rear Admiral Shohashi ordered in an icy tone. "Interrupting the commanding officer is, at the very least, discourteous. At most, it is severely punishable."
"My apologies, Rear Admiral Shohashi, but I…"
"Address not me, Captain," Erik declared. "A senior officer is present at this meeting. Adhere to the requirements of the Code."
Derr, chewing his lips, gave a barely perceptible nod, acknowledging the correctness of the directive.
"My apologies, Vice Admiral Pellaeon," he said. "I am at fault on all counts of the Code. I ask for understanding—this question concerns every one of us. I am prepared to face deserved punishment, but I request that command clarify the situation that occurred at Sluis Van."
"Apologies accepted," Pellaeon stated. "Be seated. Explanations will follow. But shortly."
"Thank you," Reder replied curtly, returning to his seat beside Captain Pryl, who cast a slightly mocking glance at her chastened colleague.
"At this moment, I wish to thank you all for participating in the execution of Operation Crimson Dawn," Gilad continued. "The goals and tasks set before us by the Grand Admiral have been fully achieved. We have obtained what we sought. Our immediate task is to transition to defending the Dominion's borders and maintaining strict control over events within the metropolitan core and on the periphery. Open military operations are not planned. The ships will be repaired and fully crewed in the near future, after which we will shift to providing comprehensive support to Grand Moff Ferrus in stabilizing the internal political situation within our state. I require each of you to conduct explanatory discussions with your subordinates and remind them that the Oath they swore was aimed at protecting the citizens and sovereignty of the Dominion, not serving Grand Admiral Thrawn specifically. Frankly, I am more than confident that Thrawn selected each of you for a greater purpose than serving a single brilliant sentient, even one such as our Supreme Commander. I trust none of you will show cowardice or attempt to desert the Dominion. I warn you now—anyone who does so will be eliminated, no matter where they are or where they flee. I assure you that the treachery of the New Republic, which is currently amassing its forces despite its territorial fragmentation, will not be ignored. As soon as we fortify our rear, normalize the operation of all acquired trophies, and strengthen our economy, we will strike back. Questions?"
Naturally, there were questions.
From everyone.
"Sir," Captain Abyss rose from his seat. "The Dominion is isolated from the broader HoloNet. Some crew members cannot contact their relatives on other planets."
"The matter is being addressed," Pellaeon stated. "At present, we have implemented strict filtering of both migrants and message traffic. The enemy continues to monitor us, and communication channels are tied to the HoloNet. We cannot afford to allow them to cause us any harm. Operations to relocate Dominion citizens' relatives to planets under our control are ongoing and will be completed in the coming weeks."
"Will closed borders not lead to economic stagnation?" Captain Stormaer inquired. "We imported much from abroad, including uniforms from the D'Astan sector, where a civil war is currently raging."
"We have sufficient reserves and all necessary resources," Grand Moff Ferrus declared, understanding that the question was directed primarily at him. "Furthermore, trade continues—both within the Dominion and with numerous neutral worlds and sectors. Contracts are being fulfilled, and exports and imports have not been significantly disrupted."
"What will our policy be regarding the actions of the Imperial Remnants and their war with the New Republic?" Commodore Mor asked.
A good question…
One to which Gilad had no answer yet. He fully understood that failing to provide one now would cast him in the worst light. Before him sat people of action, to whom the Dominion owed its existence. Nothing would be more foolish than to let them down and allow them to doubt the reliability of the successor left by the Grand Admiral.
Yet Pellaeon himself harbored justified doubts about whether Thrawn had made the right choice in entrusting the fate of his endeavors to him. Shohashi, for instance, would have been a far better fit. Why had the Chiss made this choice and not another? There had to be an answer to this question! There could be no other way!
But once again, the vice admiral acknowledged that he did not know it.
From the faces of some of the officers present, he realized they knew his little secret. They had all joined the Dominion to serve a bold, decisive, informed, and unquestionably brilliant commander. Pellaeon was not that being. They would not follow him if there was another option. And they had one—to return to what they had been doing before meeting Thrawn. Who would stop them? Who would give the order to open fire on their starships?
Intellectually, Pellaeon understood that to suppress a potential mutiny, he would have to eliminate these sentients. But his heart refused to accept needless sacrifices.
And the sentients seated before him understood this too—otherwise, they would already be celebrating the defeat of the Republicans at Sluis Van.
"This is the beginning of the end," he thought.
"An excellent question, Commodore Mor," came a well-modulated voice from the entrance to the conference hall.
Its timbre sent shivers down spines.
Gilad, along with everyone present, their faces frozen in mute shock, silently watched as the sentient moved from the entrance to the table.
As he took his rightful seat, with his adjutant, Lieutenant Colonel Tierce, and the gray-skinned assassin-bodyguard Rukh standing behind the high-backed chair.
And in the front row sat…
Himself.
Pellaeon stared at a slightly younger version of himself, bearing the rank insignia of a captain on his chest.
And on his shoulder—a chevron with the name of a ship.
The super star destroyer Guardian.
"And so," Grand Admiral Thrawn declared, sweeping the room with his fiery gaze, eliciting stunned looks, impenetrable silence, reverent awe, and confidence in the future from the audience. "I thank you for organizing this gathering, Vice Admiral. Well, I believe everyone has realized that rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. You must be wondering: 'For what purpose have I gathered you all here?' Well, prepare to hear the answers…"
And the ship commanders, fleet formation leaders, the Grand Moff and his clones, ground force commanders, and other invited officers sat in silence, listening.
With shocked expressions, they absorbed the calm and straightforward speech of the non-human who had deceived not only death but the entire galaxy.
And Gilad, barely holding back tears, cast a careful glance at Thrawn, realizing the immense burden of responsibility that had just lifted from his shoulders.
Because the Grand Admiral had a PLAN.
"A new campaign, named 'Knockout Game,' begins today, commanders," the Grand Admiral declared, diving into the routine of assigning tasks to each of those present.
***
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