As Norys clomped off without acknowledging Brakiss’s rebuff, the master of the Shadow Academy turned to look back at the silent Imperial shuttle. He himself was unable to comprehend why the Emperor had come here if he had no intention of interacting with the Shadow Academy, or at least meeting with Brakiss personally.
However, the Emperor was the ultimate master, and Brakiss would not dare question Palpatine’s orders.
The last one to leave the docking bay, he turned with a swirl of his silvery robes and stepped outside before transmitting the signal that closed and sealed the doors to the docking bay.
As he stood in the outer corridor, though, Brakiss made a decision of his own. He was master of this station—and was required to know what happened aboard it, wasn’t he? He had followed the Emperor’s wishes to the letter, but now he needed to see what was going on. Brakiss went to a videomonitor designed for observation of docking and loading procedures.
With the docking bay emptied of stormtroopers and Shadow Academy representatives, the hatches finally opened on the Emperor’s shuttle. On the monitor Brakiss was impressed to see four Imperial guards stride out, shrouded in scarlet robes. The intimidating red guards had been the most feared elite corps of Palpatine’s forces, and now four of them had accompanied the Emperor here. Smooth red armor covered their heads and shoulders like cowls, reminding him of historical images he had seen of ancient Mandalorian uniforms.
The red Imperial guards moved away from the ship and took up defensive positions, their robes flowing like flames around them. A shudder ran down Brakiss’s spine. He tried to feel the intense dark force crackling from the core of the Imperial transport ship. The Emperor, he knew, must be in there somewhere.
Through the voice pickup mounted in the docking bay, Brakiss heard a clanking, slamming sound. Two pairs of squat, powerful worker droids tromped down the wide extended ramp, carrying an enormously heavy isolation chamber. The worker droids, little more than the powerful arms and legs mounted on a stocky body core, hauled their burden without complaint.
The droids were gentle with their cargo, moving smoothly, carefully, despite the immense power in their hydraulic limbs. They carried the huge tank off the Imperial ship and into the docking bay. Side panels on the isolation chamber’s black riveted walls blinked with multicolored lights; computer displays showed life monitors and external communications.
The four red guards surrounded the chamber, looking protective and menacing. Then they marched toward the broad doors—two in front of the chamber, two behind—into the main core of the Shadow Academy.
Brakiss hurried to open the doors for them, but somehow the computer-locked seals were automatically broken before he could do so. The doors slammed open, as if controlled by the Emperor’s dark side powers.
The red guards strode forward, still surrounding the worker droids. The huge isolation tank hissed and buzzed and bleeped as a thousand electronic systems monitored its supremely important occupant.
Brakiss stopped in front of the foremost pair of Imperial guards. “Greetings. I am Master Brakiss of the Shadow Academy.”
The leader of the red guards turned his armored head, and Brakiss felt a cold scrutiny through the black eyeslit. “You will leave us alone. We have important work, and we require privacy. You may guide us to our chambers—and then leave.”
Brakiss could barely contain his dismay. “But … I am the Master of the Shadow Academy.”
The red guard said, “And the Emperor is the master of the galaxy. He wishes privacy for now. We suggest that you do not displease him.”
Brakiss backed away, bowing quickly. “I have no wish to displease the Emperor. Forgive my impudence.”
After Brakiss indicated the quarters to which the visitors had been assigned—the plushest and most spacious accommodations aboard the station—the red guards and worker droids marched into the chambers, leaving Brakiss alone out in the corridor.
He felt belittled, insignificant, stepped on, as if all of his accomplishments and work meant nothing to the Emperor. It baffled him. What could be the purpose of it? He frowned as thoughts whirled inside his head.
The Emperor had originally died in the destruction of the second Death Star, but six years after his defeat, Palpatine had been resurrected in a series of clones, which had also—presumably—been destroyed.
Now, after observing the isolation tank, the secrecy, the inexplicable behavior of the four Imperial guards, Brakiss felt a new and deeper fear coil through his body. He wondered if something could be wrong, if the Emperor could perhaps be in failing health again….
If that was the case, the Second Imperium was indeed in great trouble.
*
AS A FORMER TIE pilot, Qorl had been trained in the Imperial way, with loyalties and duties and responses drilled into him. No questions, only orders. His mind had been programmed to turn him into a perfect fighting machine for the Empire.
The cornerstone of that training had been discipline. And one thing Qorl knew: the young man who stood before him was not disciplined.
He wondered if perhaps Brakiss and Tamith Kai had been too hasty in accepting Norys and his band of young ruffians from Coruscant to be trained as stormtroopers and pilots. True, the battles ahead to recapture lost glory, to reclaim stolen territory, would require every set of capable hands for the Second Imperium. But even if Qorl did manage to turn the rest of the Lost Ones gang into serviceable troopers and pilots, this one was trouble.
At the control pad of the simulation chamber, Qorl programmed in a new set of targets while Norys recharged his blaster rifle. He vowed to train this one, and keep training him, until he saw some genuine progress in the ambitious fighter.
“I still say I should have been sent on the raid with Tamith Kai,” Norys grumbled, waving his weapon as if it made him feel more secure. “I could have taken out a few enemies, evened the score a little bit for our side. Set a few of those big Wookiee trees on fire.”
Qorl set the simulated targets in rapid motion: black, orange, and blue for Rebels, and white for stormtroopers. “It’s a small raid,” Qorl said. “Zekk is directing the troops. There was no need for a second leader.”
Norys took aim at a blue target and missed. He liked target practice better when the targets were slow simulations like mynocks. It was fun to kill them. “Then they should have sent me alone, old man. I’m a better leader now than that trash collector will ever be.”
Trouble, Qorl thought, definitely trouble. “Why do you say that?”
“Because,” Norys said, taking aim at an orange target, but only nicking the edge of it, “my followers are so afraid of me they’d never dare disobey my orders.” He missed once more. “Is the aim-point on this blaster offset again?”
“You aren’t concentrating on your target,” Qorl said, then addressed the candidate’s comment in a neutral tone. “Your example is indeed one method of leadership. But you have much to learn.”
Norys bristled and missed another shot. He rounded on the former TIE pilot with a menacing growl. “Like what, old man?”
Qorl didn’t flinch or back down. He had faced tougher adversaries than this young bully—though perhaps none with such pure mean-spiritedness. “You could learn to concentrate on your weapon and shut out distractions. You could also learn how to aim and hit your intended target each time, rather than just talking about it,” Qorl pointed out. “The way you are shooting today, you would have become a casualty in only a few seconds in a real firefight.”