A meeting on Horuz

[Krassus Horuset]

PART I: The Arrival 

The shuttle emerged from hyperspace with a ripple of azure light and a sigh of energy, bearing the distinct crest of the Nam’ta Confederacy; a once proud emblem of independence, stability and armed neutrality in a galaxy torn by war; now dulled by the shadow of its ever-clearer surrender of autonomy. The striking green and gold insignia shimmered faintly on the hull, framed by flaking paint and other such 'scars' of lacking maintenance in times of war.

Flanking the craft in tight formation were two Nam’tees fighter craft, painted in old planetary hues of emerald and ivory, symbols of a government and armed forces still clinging desperately to an illusion of independence. Correcting their heading and tightening their formation as they veered into the steel-choked orbit of Horuz, the sky above the jungle planet became a sea of dagger-like silhouettes.

Harrower-class dreadnoughts stretched like armored leviathans across the horizon, their keels glinting with turbolaser ports and their hangars trafficked by supply craft. A warfleet returning from the Nam'ta Gambit's invasions of Fest and Spefik, now being retrofitted for further battle.

Amid them was the unmistakable flagship of Imperial control in the sector: The ISS Bloodwyrm.

Its bow was adorned with a massive crimson serpent, coils winding from hull to bridge, its fanged maw frozen in eternal strike. By Imperial standards it was an old ship by now, in service since the Cold War, its hull scarred from battles past. But its reputation was no less dreadful. Darth Zudikas, the Dark Council’s emissary, oversaw the entire Atrivis campaign from within its armoured walls.

And all knew that to see its presence was to lay eyes upon the far-reaching gaze of Darth Xarion, head of the Pyramid of Galactic Influence, made manifest.

The Nam’ta shuttle’s instruments pinged with proximity alerts as a squadron of Mark VI Supremacy-class starfighters closed in like carrion birds.

“Nam’ta shuttle,” crackled a voice across the channel. Imperial diction. Precise. Cold.

“Your escort will disengage immediately. Fighters Two and Three are ordered to separate for Hangars Four-Seven-Niner and Four-Eight-Zero respectively. Final approach to be completed under Imperial guidance. Acknowledge.”

Inside the cockpit, the Nam'tees pilot tensed, glancing toward President Kemma Ralter for instruction. She gave the slightest nod.

“Understood, Control,” the pilot responded. “Shuttle Confederacy Dawn releasing escorts.”

The two Nam’tees fighters peeled off wordlessly, veering toward their assigned docking zones like children dismissed from an audience with their betters. Only two Imperial interceptors remained, slipping into position beside the shuttle with surgical elegance.

No words were spoken, but the message was clear.

Below, the planet seethed. Horuz was a world of verdant cruelty, its jungles thick with choking vines and barbed thorns. Steam curled up from swamp basins and black lakes, hazing the sky like breath on a mirror.

In three thousand years, it would be renamed Despayre, after the moaning millions who would perish building the first Death Star. But already it was a prison world in all but name; its surface carved up by labor camps, ore drills, and fortified Imperial city towers.

And at its blackened heart stood the fortress-palace of Moff Maximilian Graush.

One of its shuttle pads extended upon the shuttle's approach as the Supremacy Fighters veered off. A squad of Imperial soldiers stood by for the arrival of the Confederacy's delegates. Unmoving as statues, expressionless visors set upon the lowering shuttle ramp.

As President Ralter stepped down the shuttle ramps, the heat struck her like a blow. The Horuz air was thick with humidity and the scent of rotting flora, overlaid with chemical tang from nearby refineries.

No one greeted her. Not officially. Not beyond the Imperial squad leader with a cold:

"The Moff has been waiting for you, President Ralter. This way, please."

They turned, and moved. The Confederate President and her Ambassador following close behind into the Moff's palace of horrors.

The hallways of Graush's residence on Horuz stank of antiseptic and embalming fluid.

Light flickered through cold transparisteel windows, casting twitching reflections on the museum of horrors that made up the palace's inner sanctum. Glass cases stretched the length of the corridors, each displaying an exhibit more perverse than the last.

Duros infants in jars of yellowing preservative. Bothan craniums surgically flayed to reveal neural patterning. A Gungan posed mid-leap, frozen in death, its skin stretched unnaturally taut across a frame of carbon-alloy supports.

Wookiee warriors in “natural” poses shielding their displayed “young.” A Mon Calamari in full Republic military regalia, dissected and split from throat to waist, with numbered pins stuck through his organs. In the next case: a Jawa curled in fetal position, eyes open but glassy, limbs curled around a scrap of metal.

It was colder than a morgue. Each alien corpse a display of the Moff’s hunting trophies or scientific curiosity into xenobiology.

President Kemma Ralter’s boots clicked smartly along the polished obsidian floor, each step defiant, despite the bile rising in her throat. She kept her eyes forward, refusing to meet the gaze of a taxidermied Rodian crouched in a “natural hunting pose,” blaster still clutched in its mummified hands.

At her side strode Ambassador Valco Reina, silent as ever. A seasoned career politician, Reina had held numerous positions across the Confederacy over his tenure in local politics—having served as mayor of one of Nam'ta Prime's northern districts and as a representative on the Confederate Council.

He was briefly considered as a presidential candidate for the pro-Imperial party, but was outperformed by Ralter, whom he now served as official ambassador to the Empire.

His eyes glazed over in apathy. This was not his first visit to the Moff’s residence...

[Krassus Horuset]

Part II: The Governor and the Moff

... And so the Journey continued, past rows of glass cabinets filled with dismembered alien hands labeled by species, social caste and occupation. Petrified Trandoshian skeletons strung lfrom supports in the ceiling, and a Herglic skull, cracked in two and polished like marble.

“Do you think he shows his guests this on purpose?” Kemma asked softly, her voice razor-sharp beneath its velvet. “Do you think he walks these halls alone, at night, admiring his collection?”

“I think he sleeps better with them here,” Reina replied. “And dreams of owning the rest.”

They passed beneath a grand arch decorated with what appeared to be a chandelier—until one noticed the bones, bleached and carved into ornate shapes. Closer inspection revealed they were not animal.

Before, at last, the throne room. 

Not the meeting hall with conference tables, holo projectors and ample chairs where Moff Graush usually met his delegates. No, this meeting was to be held in the very heart of the Moff's authority over the sector.

The squad of Imperial soldiers halting on either side of the large black doors, giving the Confederate president a final salute before the entrance groaned open and Kemma Ralter and her Ambassador were let into the inner sanctum of the Moff's Palace.

The ceiling arched like the belly of a warship, domed with transparisteel glass that let the dimmed light of the system's sun shine in through the clouds. Offering a distant few of the Imperial warfleet and the Bloodwyrm which hung like a sword above the world.
By each of the various support pillars holding up the glass dome stood an Imperial Commando in full battle dress. Blaster held in hand, standing still and statue-esque like glorified sentries.

Moff Maximilian Graush sat upon a raised throne forged of black iron, its frame inlaid with markings in old Sith Ruins that neither the Confederate president or her Ambassador could read.
The Moff sat at its heart, not rising when the Confederate president entered. Immense and repulsive, sunken into the chair that groaned slightly beneath the weight of him.

Graush was a mountain of a man, bald but for seven strands of greasy hair that clung desperately to his blotched scalp. His dark eyes were small, deep-set, and glittering with cruel amusement.
His cheeks spilled over his collar, his skin seemed pale and sickly even in the light of Horuz' sun.  And across his vast chest was draped a custom sash of pure albino Wookiee fur, fastened in place by the golden jawbone of a Trandoshan skull, sharpened into a clasp.

A thin layer of sweat beaded across the rolls of his flesh but he made no motion to wipe it away. A Twi'lek slave girl, horribly emaciated at best or of questionable maturity at worst , stood besides him with a wide ceremonial fan painted in the red and black of the Imperial banner. Her face was blank, her body thin. She moved the fan with Mechanical rhythm.

On his other side stood an Imperial Officer. An Ensign by what Kemma could discern from his rank tab. Older than one might expect from one of that rank, his uniform impeccable and all according to regulations. His short blonde hair combed backwards neatly, his facial features sharp and pale;  Ziost Born. Marked by his nametag as Ensign Cestus Loring. Quiet, effiiciet and ever watching. Son of Director Garrick Loring of the Empire's Alien control initiative, and perhaps the true keeper of order behing Graush's cruel theatre, she had been told by her Ambassador during the flight. 

His hands holding on tightly to a suitcase bearing the black seal of the Empire, remaing unmoving outside of acknowledging the pair of Nam'tees delegates with a polite bow of his head. Only then did the Moff finally address the pair that had come to a halt before him on the large red rug strewn across the polished obsidian floor between the door and his throne.

"Ah, my dear Kemma... How lovely to finally see you in person. Your Ambassador has always spoken so kindly of you, but how wonderful it is for you to finally come to Horuz yourself." Graush said with a welcoming gesture of his arms, an uncanny imitation of a smile appearing on his face. Only for his expression to harden again almost instantly. "But you are late. I had expected you some time ago." He said, his voice thick as tar. "I hope the sight of the Bloodwyrm and its escort did not unnerve you, my dear President?" 

Ralter did not flinch.

"Perhaps only in its paintwork," She replied coldly. "Serpents are poor symbols of loyalty, and we do not often present such imagery to our allies." She said before clicking her tongue off the roof of her mouth. "Alas I know your Empire sees such things of symbolism differently... No, it was the rebellion that kept us waiting I'm afraid your Excellency." She explained. "There was paper work I had to sign off on before I could depart in earnest."

Graush chuckled, his cheeks rippling like pudding. "Serpents make for poor allies indeed, Kemma, but they constrict and do not let go of their prey." He said, leaning forwards on his armrests. "A lesson your Security Forces cannot seem to take to heart when dealing with this rebellion you speak of... Tell me, what is the status of the current fighting again, My dear?"

"Containable." She replied, meeting the Moff's gaze with her own. Her painted lips thinning as she joined her hands behind the small of her back, hiding her hands in the wide sleeves of her emerald robes. "The Republic's Withdrawal has wounded them and severely curtailed their maneuverability. However, due to your Navy's inability to prevent Republic supply landings, they have weapons and conviction. To defeat their little band will take time, nothing more."

"Containable?" The Moff repeated. "Is that so? For my spies report it as anything but containable Miss President." Graush said, leaning backwards into his throne before he continues. "My commanders in your system report that the fires of rebellion consider to spread like a cancer. That alien, Barracas fancies himself as Grand Marshal now... With more and more Rebel cells uniting under his banner." He said, clicking his tongue in disappointment. "And 'Senator' Stendarr's ancient bones still rattle in the Senate with each passionate speech she makes on the behalf of 'Free Nam'ta, gathering support for renewed intervention every day." 

At that Graush made a gurgling sound, laughter presumably, and gestured lazily toward the Imperial warfleet in Orbit. "In fact, President Ralter... Darth Zudikas and his Master on the Dark Council believe your Government no longer capable of containing this mold of dissent under the floorboards of Nam'tees society." With that he snapped his fingers, the ensign stepping forwards with mechanical precision. Opening the suitcase and displaying its contents to the President and her Ambassador. Within it a small, intricate sigil. Obsidian trim with Red rank markings... The Badge of office of an Imperial Governor.   

"Take it." Graush said. "Your patience, loyalty and usefull have been noted, but you will not leave Horuz as President any more, *Governor* Ralter. The Dark Council no longer believes there is a future for Nam'ta without direct ascension into the Imperial Fold." The Moff Spoke, joining his hands in front of him as he narrowed his hatred filled, dark eyes with cruel amusement. 

Kemma's jaw was tight, her eyes didn't blink. "I didn't come here to sell my soul to sell our indepen-" 

"No," Graush interrupted, rising partially from his seat. His Hands gripped the arms of his throne, lifting himself enough to loom like a wall of pale flesh and hate. His jaw tightening as his eyes narrow. "You came here because you already have, *Governor.*" 

The silence that followed was cold, Ralter clenching her fists, but saying nothing. Simply locking eyes with the Moff, who again slowly sat down.

"Smile, Governor. This is a moment of triump for you. Your People and the galaxy have already been informed at this very moment that this was an initiative of your choosing. That, realising the Confederacy cannot defend itself against the Republic's threat alone. And that you, as the wise leader of your people have come here to petition the Empire for your planet's official annexation."  He said smiling, approvingly. "And the Empire *Graciously* accepts your petition."

Graush again motioned to the box held out by the Ensign. "Take it. You will be the Emperor's Voice in the Nam'ta sector, and hero of your people..." 

Ralter took it, her fingers closing around the rank slab like a trap. Hiding her fury behind her cold expression. 'Governor', She thought to herself, 'A servant's Title.' 

"And what of the Rebellion?" She then asked. 

"Oh." Graush Breathed. "They will be Crushed."

He said, leaning forwards again. And despite the rolls of flesh and puffed breath his tone turned Glacial. 

"The Conquest Consolidation Corps awaits your official request for deployment, Governor. Thirty Thousand strong. Its commanders Proven on Balmorra, and a dozen planets after. Every man among them traiend to pacify a world in rebellion. Exactly what you will need... Soon there will be no Grand Marshals, no more 'Free Nam'ta' to have Senators, no more alien coalitions and no more rebellion... Only Cinders will remain." 

....

[Krassus Horuset]

Part III: A future dictated

"And what of Operational Command?" Kemma asked, her fingers still clutched around the governor's rank slab. "I assume an Imperial Governor is allowed to oversee war fighting in her own system?" 

"Only partially." Graush said, his smile widening as a flicker of cruel amusement danced across his hateful gaze. "The former Nam'ta Security forces will be enrolled in the Imperial Sector Defense Force, and as governor you will, in theory, have full command over them of course... But I am sending a 'Crisis expert' along with the Conquest Consolidation Corps."  Graush explained, his gaze shifting to Ensign Loring, who elaborated.

"Colonel Dramath Rennab." Loring explained. "His family has a long history of proud Military service. The colonel himself  has served with the Coslidation Corps since the fighting on Balmorra, he is an expert at exactly this sort of fighting. His Service record will be provided to you, Governor." 

"Indeed." Graush butted in. "He will have full command over the forces of the Corps... And while they remain planet-side, the Sector Defense Forces will be placed as subsidiaries to his command. Your authorization on their deployments will of course still be necessary, Governor... You will pull the trigger, but Rennab will point the gun. I expect you will have such a fun time working together."

Ralter's jaw tightened, her expression hardening. "Nam'ta's military commanders will not so easily accept an off-worlder's orders, Moff Graush. This will not be easily explained to our people."

"Then don't." Graush said flatly. Raising a hand. "Your people are citizens of the Empire now, Governor. And Imperial Citizens do not get explanations. They do as they are told." He explained, parting his arms in a welcoming gesture.

Kemma inhaled sharply and parted her lips to retort but was quickly interrupted by the Moff before she could. "There is more." He said, raising his hand once more to silence the foreign president turned underling. "You will be pleased to hear that our dear friend Ozil Kaldon has also been granted an official Imperial Commission."

Kemma blinked, her posture further stiffening. "Commission?" 

"Indeed. 'Imperial Commodore of the Nam'ta System,' No less." Graush purred, clearly enjoying himself. "He requested the rank personally." 

"Commodore?" Ralter repeated, scoffing slightly. "A Naval Rank? He has no fleet." 

"No," Graush said. "But He does have thirty-five thousand loyal mercenaries turned Imperial Privateers, a dozen artillery battalions, nigh endless capital and an entire one of your moons under martial law." Graush paused. "He chose the rank, Apperently, because he prefers the color scheme of an Imperial naval uniform. Finds it more 'Flattering' to his complexion. And he likes the sound of 'Commodore.' it has, and I quote, 'A ring to it. It was all quite endearing, so I humored his request." 

Graush said, chuckling to himself as he examines a reflection of himself in the polished datapad laying on his armrest. "Let us not underestimate the merit of pageantry, Governor. You may loathe him my dear, but you cannot do without him." 

It is then that Reina stirred at last. "Madam President, Your Excellency... With all due respect but I cannot hold my tongue on this." He said, his voice trembling slightly in frustration and fear. Not used to speaking out in front of his batters. "You would grant a commission, an *Imperial Commission*, To Ozil Kaldon? To give him such a say in the future of our world?" His aging features flushed with rare fury.

"This is madness. His so-called army of 'Privateers' is a horde of hired thugs, mercenaries and conscripted prisoners dragged from detention blocks and debt camps!" Reina spoke, the eyes of everyone in the room shifting to him. Ralter surprised, Ensign Loring uncaring, and the moff? Thoroughly amused, resting his right cheek on his fist, letting the Ambassador continue. "He has no loyalty but to his own balance sheet. He didn't liberate Nam'ta Secundus from the rebels, he conquered it. He shelled population centers, burned whole districts to the ground as he advanced, and seized the factories for himself." 

Reina's Voice rose, echoing against the vaulted chamber walls. "If he aided the government's war effort in any way, it was by accident. Not by design.  He is nothing but an opportunist! Everything he touches, he claims for himself. The people of Nam'ta will never accept a man like that to hold such sway. His actions go against everything the Confederate Charter stands for." 

"The Confederate Charter is dead." Ensign Loring said, cutting off the Ambassador before he could continue, his voice thick with a Ziosti accent. "You do not seem to get it, Ambassador. There is no more Confederacy. No Charter, no council of representatives, no democracy. Your people are Imperial Subjects now, their opinions matter very little to us."

"Madam President!" Reina pleaded, turning in desperation to Kemma who has stayed quiet thus far. Her lips tightened, her gaze briefly averted to the ground. "Surely you cannot stand for this! The systems and principles that have governed the Confederacy for millennia can surely not be undone so carelessly?" He begged.

Kemma did not speak, it was the Ensign who replied. "You truly haven't been paying attention to the Rumours surrounding the governor-elect have you, Reina? She has all but undone those systems and principles herself since assuming office and the war began. There is a reason that her detractors claim Kemma Ralter has always been a true patriot. But whether to the flag of the Confederacy or that of the Empire...." He mused, his voice trailing off. 

"Hold your Tongue, Ensign." Kemma then hissed at last. "As Governor I will not be slandered by a junior officer, especially not by a Moff's Glorified bookkeeper." She said, tightening her jaw. The Ensign simply bowing his head.  Kemma then looking to Reina. "It is best for our people, Valco. To push Kaldon away from us will only lead to more chaos. We cannot contain his influence and that of Barracas at the same time... And it is Governor now." She said, with a deep sigh.

Graush laughing at that, finally meddling in the Conversation. "Aaah~ Such fire! I told you she had quite the feisty temperament, Cestus!" He said with another boisterous laugh that made his cheeks jiggle. 

"Indeed." The Ensign replied. "And already embracing her new position." 

Graush mused softly at that before turning his hate-filled gaze to Reina again. "Three of your sons serve in the Security forces, do they not, Ambassador?" 

"Two, your excellency." Cestus corrected. "The Eldest was recently killed in action on the frontlines of Nam'ta III." 

"Ah~" Graush said, his expression softening slightly. "My Condolences, Reina.  I will forgive your outburst... It is always difficult to loose a loved one, a child especially I imagine... Having so recently lost my own brother I empathize." He said, holding his hand against his chest where his heart would be. "As a father I would imagine you would do anything you can to protect your other sons... In times like these junior officers are often rushed into dangerous postings on the front before they are ready... Let us pray they are spared from such assignments, Hmmm?" He said. His expression hardening once more, a not so subtle threat. 

Reina, parted his lips to speak, but bit his tongue. Inhaling deeply as he bowed his head in submission.

A cold silence lingering throughout the throne room for a long moment before Kemma spoke up once again.

"Was there more, Moff Graush?" She asked. Her tone, polite but clearly frustrated.

"There is~" Graush said, sitting up in his throne again....

[Krassus Horuset]

Part IV: A Calculated Culling.

 “...When you return to Nam'ta,” Moff Graush began, his voice measured and almost lethargic, “You will hold a press conference in your new Imperial uniform as your badge of office.”

The words rolled out of him like oil, thick and slow, as he idly stroked the albino Wookiee sash draped across his mountainous chest. The throne room had grown stifling with heat as the confrontation dragged on. The Twi'lek slave girl  behind him flapped her fan in lazy rhythm; more symbolic than functional sweat still glistening on the folds of the Moff's face.

“You will confirm what the people of your world believe transpired here; realizing the Confederacy could not stand against the threat posed by the Republic alone, you came to Horuz of your own volition,” he continued, tone now firming like congealing grease, “to petition the Empire to expand the defense treaty into an official Union. Nam’ta’s ascendance into the Imperial fold..." The Moff said, dragging out his words as a smile of cruel amusement danced on his features. "For the protection of your people, of course~” 

Kemma said nothing. Her fists were clenched at her sides, out of sight.

“...You will announce the *benefits* of your ascendance,” Graush droned on, lifting one massive hand in a parody of benevolence. “Official entrance into the Imperial market. An end to tariffs on Imperial goods. Easier opportunities to travel Imperial worlds with proper identification papers...”

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly.

“And not least ;the deployment of the Conquest Consolidation Corps and any and all other Imperial military resources needed to stomp out the threat posed by Barracas’  Republic 'Terrorists’ for good.”

He held that moment like a sledgehammer over stone, his pudgy fingers splaying to emphasize the privilege of it all.

Then, his tone hardened.

“And it is then that you will announce that as of now Nam’ta will adhere fully to Imperial Law.” His gaze bored into her. “And as you might know, Governor, according to Imperial Law the punishment for treason, rebellion, and association with our Republic enemies is... death.”

He let the word hang in the air like the tolling of a funeral bell.
“As such,” he continued, voice cold and judicial now, “you will decree that any and all members of the Resistance, and any who facilitated, housed, aided, or otherwise assisted these insurgents... are hereby declared enemies of the state, and sentenced to death.”

“No quarter will be given. No trials. No prisons. No rehabilitation. No mercy. The laws of war will not apply to them. They are terrorists and will be exterminated as such.”
The chill in his voice was not theatrical. It was policy. Calculated. Glacial.

“Are you mad?” Ralter snapped, her voice like flint striking steel, fury unmistakable in her tone. “Such a decree would only serve to fan the flames of rebellion! By giving the rebels no alternative to death, they will only be steeled in their resolve! They will fight like cornered animals for every inch of ground they hold, knowing what awaits them otherwise!”

“Indeed,” the Moff said, almost delighted, raising a hand to silence her before she could continue. “That is exactly what I want, Governor.”

He leaned back in his throne, folds of flesh shifting with the motion. He gestured with his chin toward his ever-present aide.

On cue Ensign Cestus Loring stepped forward again, hands clasped behind his back. He spoke with clarity and precision, the cold tone of one who had rehearsed such doctrine more than once.
“The fire of rebellion, of division and conflict, has already taken hold among your people, Governor,” Loring began. “There is no changing that now. No mending it. In fact... we have helped *worsen* it throughout this conflict.”
His lips twitched faintly in something between distaste and pride.

“The political space of Nam’ta has been allowed to split between ‘Pro-Imperial’ and ‘Pro-Republic’ for far too long. It has polarized your people beyond any repair. Those who fell in line with Republic ideology will never be swayed by any propaganda we can muster. And with an end to your democracy, their only refuge is resistance.”

Loring’s face twisted in thinly veiled disgust.
“And the Empire does not have the time or patience for a long, dragged-out insurgency, or a campaign of hearts and minds.”

He inhaled through his nose and pressed on. “That is why we have allowed your rebellion problems to fester. It is why Sith Intelligence has let this schism spiral into open war. Because for Barracas, Stendarr, and the rest of their ilk to have any hope of formal Republic intervention... they must be more than an insurgency.”

He gestured with his hand in a slicing motion.
“ Their ‘Free Nam’ta’ must continue to be something state-like. It must attempt to be a nation, otherwise it would never be acknowledged by the Senate. And if it is a nation... then it must hold ground. Raise armies. Fly banners. Make declarations. And that makes them combatants.”

“Combatants,” he added coldly, “who can be annihilated by conventional means.”

The Moff resumed speaking before Kemma could interject.

“The might of the Imperial war machine is unmatched in open warfare, Governor,” he said, voice thick with satisfaction. “And so... To avoid a campaign of hearts and minds and insurgency... We will force all dissent, all sympathy, all wavering loyalty into the ranks of Barracas’ ill-fated frontlines.”
He grinned. “And there, we will destroy them.”

Kemma Ralter’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes narrowed.
“So you *are* mad,” she said, tone equal parts disgust and disbelief. “If we do not take prisoners, neither will they. This war will become much more visceral and brutal than it already is. The death toll will be immense, the destruction—”

“Acceptable,” Graush interrupted, his voice a sudden boom. He leaned forward, casting a mountainous shadow over her. His breath reeked of spiced wine and decay. “Desirable, even.”
He settled back, fingers drumming on his polished obsidian datapad still resting on his armrest.

“In a conflict such as that,” he continued, “the fog of war is deepest where armies scorch the land. And within that fog can be obscured many things... Things that would otherwise turn the stomachs of your pathetically sensitive people.”
He paused, and his grin widened.

“Such as the cleansing that you will oversee. In my name.”

“What?” It was Ambassador Reina now who spoke up again, voice rising in outrage. His pale face had flushed with color.

But one black glare from Graush silenced him. The Moff’s gaze returned to Ralter, who had gone still, unreadable; save for the twitch in her jaw.

The sigh Graush gave was indulgent, almost amused. He chuckled, the sound low and wet, his cheeks trembling like puddings with amusement.

“Your system is now not just an Imperial world, Governor,” he said. “It is one of *my* worlds.”

He leaned forward once more.
“And I run a tight ship in the Atrivis Sector.”

He smiled. It was the kind of smile one might wear while watching something die.
“And your planet’s current demographics...” he said, slowly.

“...leave much to be desired.”

Graush shifted his immense bulk with a grunt and extended one thick, hand toward the polished datapad that had rested beside him on the arm of his. Its obsidian screen lit up with a flicker of red script.

For a moment, the light cast dancing shadows across his folds of flesh. He tapped twice, pulled up a series of scrolling statistics, and began to read aloud; not with emotion, not even with disdain, but with the practiced monotone of an autopsy surgeon reciting the fatal symptoms of a corpse.

“According to pre-war population surveys conducted by the Confederate Civil Census Bureau,” he began, “the combined population of the Nam'ta Confederacy across its seven moons totals six hundred seventy-three million.”
He paused only to wheeze softly, then continued.

“Of these, approximately *ten percent*; some sixty-seven point three million, are classified as *aliens.*”

"Undesirables." His lip curled slightly, the only trace of personal commentary.

“Of this alien population, thirty percent; just over twenty million, are Cathar. Most tracing their descent to the diaspora following the Mandalorian Wars. The largest of your alien minorities...”
He scrolled again.

“Another twenty percent are Togruta, displaced during the Galactic War. Survivors of Grand Moff Kilran's purges of the Togruta uprisings, now infesting city zones in your urban sectors. Twi’leks account for fifteen percent. The rest...”
A sneer crept into his voice.

“...a revolting smattering of Nautolans, Gran, Rodians, and Duros. The usual pestilence. Weak of will, incapable of order, wholly unfit for Imperial Integration.”
He set the datapad down with a faint click, his hand now resting atop it like a gavel on a judge’s bench.

“These numbers,” he said, “Will not do.”

Kemma stiffened.


“I will see them slashed,” Graush continued, “severely slashed. More than *halved* before the fighting is over.”

“Genocide!” Ralter said, voice trembling with barely-contained rage. “You’re talking about the deaths of millions of civilians. *My* Civilians! And you want me to see to this?!”

Graush turned his head toward her slowly, like a stone idol rotating on a gear.

“Cleansing, Governor,” he corrected. “Let’s not get sentimental over a few aliens.”

He gestured dismissively, as if brushing her concern off the shoulder of his uniform.

“Besides,” he continued, “many of these aliens are already in open rebellion. Most of Barracas' ranks are comprised of aliens. Housing zones with alien majorities are, and have been, the burning hearths of the fire of rebellion. The fighting rages hottest in their districts. Coincidence?”

He gave a theatrical shrug.
“They are not non-combatants. They are collaborators. A threat to Imperial Nam’ta. To *my* Nam'ta.”

He leaned forward now, eyes alight. He was enjoying this.

“Here is how it shall be done,” he said. “Our Artillery divisions and air forces will no longer be restrained by Confederate rules of engagement, or civilian grid maps. You will take inspiration from Kaldon's troops.... No more surgical strikes. We will target resistance strongholds where they truly live; in the alien zones." Graush smiled slightly before he proceeded. "Hospitals, housing blocks, food depots, medbays and shelters; All will be flattened. All of it under the guise of *siege warfare*, striking hidden resistance bases... Starving the enemy of that which aids their war effort.”

He snapped his fingers, the sound sharp and final.

“We will starve them. We will deny them medicine. Imperial Bomber command will raze shelters and refugee camps that violate curfews or 'Hide enemy commanders'. Supply lines will ‘accidentally’ be misrouted from starving city blocks. Houses will be demolished as 'Fire breaks' between frontlines, or the sites of Battlement construction..”

"Behind the frontlines," he continued, “the Imperial Alien Control Initiative will be deployed in force. Special battalions, handpicked by myself, commanded by Colonel Demetrius Cabbel.”
He tapped the datapad again.

“His mobile purging units will follow the frontlines, operating just behind the scorching fog of war, sweeping through conquered city blocks. They will eliminate 'subversive alien elements' behind the lines. Cathar laborers, Togruta medics, suspected Twi’lek sympathizers. 'Insurgent informants and terrorists in hiding'. Efficiently. Quietly. No trials. No bureaucracy. No paperwork.”

Graush turned toward her again, eyes wide with delight.

“In areas away from the front, we’ll orchestrate a campaign of informative vigilance. Propaganda will saturate the holofeeds. Alien families will be accused of aiding the Resistance. Police raids will sweep up hundreds in the night. Accused of espionage. Sabotage. Sympathy.”

He smiled again.

“They’ll disappear. Quietly. Their neighbors will be told they were spies. Their names erased. Their homes reassigned.”

He raised a finger.

“And of course; rewards. Those who report alien sympathizers will receive food credits. Land. Authority. Status. Their loyalty will be repaid. We will weaponize desperation.”

He exhaled, finally, eyes gleaming with something close to reverence.

“A humanitarian crisis will be created along the line of contact Governor. That fog of war will give us the cover we need. To reshape my- Your world for its Imperial future.”

Ralter said nothing at first. Her face had gone pale, her hands trembling at her sides.

“You’re sentencing entire city districts to death,” she said at last. “Millions. You’ll burn down cities to bury your enemies. There will be nothing left to govern when this is over.”

“There will be less alien subjects, yes.” Graush replied, voice low and velvety. “But there will be peace. Purity." He smiled, proudly. "An opportunity to rebuild Nam'ta in the wake of the consolidation, to steel its people into an Imperial world worthy of joining my sector.”

Kemma opened her mouth again... Then stopped, as his eyes locked with hers.

They were not just cruel.

They were rapturous. This is who Moff Graush truly was. He was exstatic, and not finished yet....

[Krassus Horuset]

Part V: Ashes in Uniform

Graush shifted on his throne again, the leather in his uniform creaking and groaning under the weight of his bulk. Leaning backwards into his seat, his hand returned to the datapad. Lifting the device once more with quiet reverence, as though it was a priest's book before a sermon.
With a few blunt taps, the pale-red glow of the information displayed on it returned to life; casting harsh lines across the folds of his face.

He did not look up immediately, only read. Slowly. Like a man reviewing the last page of the final chapter of a favorite book. Inhaling deeply as he got comfortable in his throne, licking his lips before he parted them again to speak.
“A final matter,” he murmured.

Kemma did not move, freezing in place as the Moff's dark eyes settled on her again.
“According to the most recent Confederate Personnel rosters,” Graush began, “your Security Forces currently retain an active alien component. Amounting to roughly five percent of total enlisted personnel. Twi’leks, Cathar, some Togruta and a few outliers from a half-dozen other species,” Graush said, reading it off like ingredients on a recipe list.

His gaze flicked up from the datapad, cold and unwavering as they met the governor's again.
“This will be corrected.”

The words struck like a hammer to stone. He let them linger for a moment before clarifying.
“Your Security Forces are now a part of my Sector Defence Forces... And I do not have alien soldiers. These men of yours are to be relieved of duty. Immediately. No review. No appeal.”

The room held still. Even the fanning Twi’lek behind the Moff's throne seemed to hesitate for a moment as silence reigned in the throne room for a long, drawn-out moment.

Then Kemma Ralter stirred. Her voice was quiet, but sharp.
“I... I cannot do that. Many of them have fought loyally, even as others defected to the rebellion. They've held lines when human forces broke. Many of them come from communities in open revolt, and have chosen Confederate unity over dissent. They will have nowhere else to go, their ranks are all they have.”

She paused, swallowing as the Moff loomed over her, holding firm to her beliefs on this matter. “If we cast them aside, they'll be desperate. Out of a job. Trained, battle-hardened. Angry.”

She met his gaze without blinking.
“You would do little more than giving the rebellion new, professional, soldiers.”

Graush simply leaned back in his throne at that, lowering the datapad as he let out a satisfied sigh. Smiling faintly, as if she had simply confirmed something he already understood. “Yes.”

He put down the datapad on the armrest again and rested his hands across his stomach like a judge settling into final judgement.

“Some will indeed drift toward Barracas and his disjointed army of Republic Insurgents. Others, with no love for the Republic but a need to eat, may find work in the private regiments of Commodore Kaldon, I suspect. His armies' appetite for warm bodies to throw forward ahead of their artillery remains insatiable,” the Moff said, shifting in his seat once again, waving a hand through the air as if brushing the matter off his shoulder.

“I have already spoken with Kaldon about that eventuality, and an agreement has been reached.” He paused, tone mild, as if discussing grain distribution.

“Any of these aliens that join the KIG, Kaldon will deploy as expendable shock infantry. Deployed at the front of his formations. They will march first. They will fall first. Fixing Republic lines in place alongside Kaldon's conscripted prisoners, while his professional Mercenaries and Artillery find holes in their lines. Any aliens that join up with Kaldon will likely find a quick death, aiding the Empire as the next wave steps over them.
Efficient. Predictable. Clean.”

Ralter opened her mouth again, but it was Ambassador Reina who spoke first, finally having gathered the courage again to meddle in the discussion.

“Many in our officer corps will reject this. Some of them have served with these troops for years. Others trained them. Even among our most loyal human commanders, the backlash—”

“Will be your concern!” Graush interrupted, eyes now on Ralter alone. “You are no longer representatives or politicians of a squabbling Confederacy. You are functionaries of the Empire.” He said, leaning forward in his throne to loom like a mountain of pale flesh, raising one of his enormous hands, clenching it into a fist that loomed like an executioner's axe to underline his point.

“You will enforce Imperial Law. Imperial Standards. And Imperial expectations. Imperial obedience. Nam’ta's military is no longer your own. It is ours. Mine. The sooner it becomes unrecognizable to its old self, the better.”

Reina's lips parted, then closed. His expression soured into something close to fear again, but not surprise.

The silence returned, thick with the smell of the Moff's sweat and the odor of antiseptic that clung to every part of his palace. Then Reina spoke again, more carefully.
“I maintain, Your Excellency, that this is not a wise move. Our government is already strained by the war. Entire districts are flooded by refugees. Our internal market has collapsed. Fear is widespread. Public sentiment is on the brink. Adding this military reorganization, the removal of aliens from government and army alike atop the fire will be disastr—”

“Then let your public sentiment crumble.” Ensign Loring interjected, his voice razor-thin and pitiless. “Let the old sentiment collapse under its own irrelevance. A new Imperial age is dawning for your people. Those who adapt will survive. The rest, if they make themselves obstacles to this transition, will be removed.”

Kemma Ralter stared down at the floor for a moment. Her face was unreadable. When she finally raised her head again, there was something brittle in her posture. Her expression, mixed, conflicted.

“I need room,” she said. “If you want compliance, if you want order, if you want this annexation to go smoothly, you need to give me the space to manage this transition politically without it turning into further open revolt. Our party is loyal to the Empire, our government is loyal. But they will need a tactful hand for the transition. If I am to rule, I need to be able to breathe. I need to be able to do what is best for the system.”

Graush watched her plea with something close to amusement. He tapped the datapad’s obsidian surface one final time, locking it with a sharp, audible click.

“You will do as you are told, Governor,” Graush said, his tone cold, detached. Then he leaned forward slightly, his folds shifting like the earth before a tremor.

“Or perhaps,” he said, voice low and even, “you would prefer the truth be made public.”

The words hung there, vague at first, until his gaze narrowed.

“The details regarding your meteoric rise through the Party’s ranks. The conveniently timed retirement of your rivals. The campaign funding. The ‘technical errors’ in the vote count. Sith Intelligence has dossiers on all of it. Audio. Documents. Patterns. We have invested a great deal in putting you in this position, Governor... Now it is time you pay your dividends.”

He leaned forward again, his tone low, hissed through his teeth like the utterings of a great serpent. “Because if your party members were to figure out the truth... Should you stray from the publicly accepted narrative... The alternative will be... unpleasant, I imagine.”

Ralter said nothing.

Reina turned his head, eyes widening slightly. As if he had heard the rumors but could never bring himself to imagine there was truth to them. “What is he talking about, Kemma?”

She didn’t answer him.

Graush made a dismissive motion with his hand, as if closing a book. “I believe I have said enough on the matter... As governor you will do as you are told. You'll return to Nam’ta Prime in full Imperial Uniform.” He said, motioning to the large doors that slid open with a heavy groan, two figures who looked like tailors stepping into the room as if cued. “You'll speak the words I've given you. You'll have your Presidential Guard lower the flag of the Confederacy and raise the Imperial banner for all to see. And you will ensure your people believe it was your idea.”

Another pause.
“And then our work will begin in earnest.”

And there it was. The bargain fully laid bare. Any illusion of control held by the Confederate President and her aide upon arrival in the Horuz system, stripped down to the bone.

Kemma Ralter closed her eyes for a breath, exhaled slowly, then nodded. Once. The sound was softer than anything spoken in the room that night, but its impact landed like the slamming of a door. “As you command, Your Excellency,” she spoke, compliance ringing through in her tone.

Graush reclined into his throne with a grunt of satisfaction, the datapad set aside like a tool no longer needed. Loring said nothing, but the look in his eyes suggested nothing had gone off-script. His gaze shifting between the two former Confederate diplomats with a cold detachment, no hint of emotion betrayed on his face.

The future of Nam’ta was now charted. And with silence and resignation, it was condemned to one of blood and ashes...

[THE END]