The alcohol burned Admiral Daala's throat as she set the glass down. She reviewed the first of the prisoner interrogation recordings again, her eyes narrowing as she watched the hologram play out. She looked out the viewing port of her private quarters at the asteroids that made up Revan Research Base, each one carved with domes and infrastructure to accommodate troops, supplies, and research projects. They were held in place by the experimental “sinkhole” macro gravity generator— not so experimental anymore, she thought bitterly. It’s been working without an issue for over ten years now.

  The sight never quite felt familiar. She always expected to see stars out the viewing port, like one would in open space. Instead, the yellow gas shield that blocked all transmissions and scanners going in and out also obscured the stars, depriving her of the only view that might make this assignment seem worthwhile.

  She returned to the recording footage once again and took another swig. The “whiskey”—if one used the term loosely for the kind of alcohol the research base was capable of producing—burned her throat but tasted like nothing at all.

  She hit the button, restarting Blitzer Oneya’s interrogation footage for the eighth time, even though she already knew what it said. He’d deny that he and his sister had any involvement with the Rebellion, despite the Imperial records the facility had access to. He’d confirm that the “runt of a woman” she had passed out in the medbay was really the young Moff Tarkin. He’d confirm that the Death Star—the Death Star that many at this very research base had helped design—had been destroyed. He’d confirm that Wilhuff Tarkin had died on board. He’d say that the Emperor was dead. He’d say that the Empire had fallen.

  That was the part that hurt the most , she thought, her jaw tightening. Being in comms silence for the last ten years, nothing going in or out through the gas shield, only to learn that the man who ordered me to stay on lockdown until he personally arrived had been dead for a decade. She clenched her glass so tightly her knuckles turned white. I would have stayed here until I died of old age if these subspacers hadn’t wandered in by complete coincidence.

  The second worst part was learning that the Empire she had sworn herself to defend had died ripping itself apart in some Operation Cinder. Now, the Empire was nothing but scattered warlords spread throughout the Outer Rim. Disgraceful , she thought, her stomach churning with anger and grief. But the most disturbing part was that the Rebel scum had passed all the lie detector tests they’d hooked him up to.

  His ship’s limited records had even corroborated the fall of the Empire and the rise of the New Republic, as well as his job as a random, ordinary subspace explorer, the further interrogations with Gazrael Anata and the ongoing interrogation with Garrett Liosco also corroborated his story. Disturbing , she thought, because it means this pain will last, there will be no reveal of this as a daring rebel ploy that can set my heart and mind at ease.

  The blue hologram before her continued. She watched herself stand at the edge of the room, two stormtroopers ready to brutalize the prisoner. It had proven unnecessary—Blitzer had been forthcoming with all the information she wanted. In fact, despite her perfect poker face in the interrogation room, he had shared the information with a smug smile, as if he knew every word of his testimony was a knife in her heart. It was his attitude that got him beaten by the stormtroopers , she recalled, not a lack of cooperation .

  A beeping interrupted the hologram—a call from the medbay. She swiped her hand to open the message and scowled. “Confirmed DNA Match.” So the runt really is a Tarkin. Daala wracked her mind, trying to think how a noble of House Tarkin would wind up in a lowlife crew of subspace explorers poking around the dead space between the Galactic Plate and the Rishi Maze. Or how impossible the odds were that that subspace crew would be the one to just stumble into a top-secret research base hidden in the seemingly infinite expanse of dead space.

  She refocused her thoughts and flicked the comms, thinking for a moment. It would be improper to interrogate a Tarkin, she decided, but there might be other ways to get information from the girl when she awakes, perhaps an honesty dinner would lower her guard. She flipped the comms on. “Commander Fredja, it would seem we have a Moff as a guest. Prepare a banquet. We wouldn’t want her to find our hospitality lacking when she awakes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She flipped off the comms, leaving her in silence for a moment—just the gentle hum from the sinkhole generator holding the gas shield and asteroid facilities in place. She quickly wiped any remaining tears from her face, straightened her posture and did her best to harden her demeanor, show no weakness, that's what Tarkin…. Wilhuff Tarkin taught me. She flipped the switch to open her door with a hiss. “Honor Guard, on me. Medbay.”

  Four stormtroopers locked into a square formation around her, stepping in perfect unison. Her shoes clicked against the metal floors as she walked through the brightly lit halls of the research base. The medbay was close, and the walk was short.

  She clicked open the medbay door. Inside, a number of empty bacta tanks lined the walls, unused. Medical droids attended to the cleaning and a few scientists who had fallen ill. Doctor Horne sat at a desk, examining lab results through thick goggles in his lab coat.

  Nearby, Dr. Valkor sat in a flowing black dress and boots that violated regulations, her long black hair neatly braided, black makeup around her eyes making them look like black holes, faint scars across her arms that blended into her pale skin, and a pile of medical books beside her. Her sense of style doesn’t seem too different from the Moff Tarkin she’s attending to, Daala thought, glancing at the unconscious girl on the MedBay table.

  “I believe you’re out of uniform, Dr. Valkor,” Daala said, her tone sharp.

  “It’s my day off, and you called me in for an emergency.” Valkor’s face remained a mask of detached indifference. “You’re lucky I came at all. Did you expect me to keep you waiting while I got dressed?”

  “Your insolence is noted, Doctor. Wear regulation attire next time, or you’ll find yourself scrubbing bacta tanks.,” Daala replied, maintaining her authoritative tone.

  Valkor’s face was still emotionless. “You hired a civilian phlebotomist.” She gestured to her mound of books. “Instead, you got a doctor. A good doctor. Still not a soldier.”

  “This is a military facility.” Daala responded sharply. Woman thinks that because Horne lets her play doctor and she's read a few manuals that suddenly she's this facility’s most important asset.

  “Oh, by all means, have one of your medic stormtroopers come do this work for me. I’d love to get back to my day off.” Valkor's voice was still emotionless but her eyes drifted to the door confirming that was exactly what she was hoping would happen.

  “Just because we overlooked your history of dalliances on Coruscant doesn't mean your leash is long, Salem.” Daala turned to Dr. Horne, as Dr. Salem Valkor's detached demeanor was betrayed by the ever subtle clench of her jaw. “Keep your subordinates in line, or next time I find her out of uniform, you’re both in trouble.” She turned back to Valkor. “Status update.”

  Valkor’s face remained flat as she swiveled in her chair, her dress flowing freely around her like an extended shadow, her tone professional but subtly tinged with resent. “I ran DNA tests on blood, skin, hair, and saliva samples, as well as double tests on each to control for false positives. She came up positive on every single one of them. You have Leonia Tarkin, age 22, lying here. I even tried to isolate individual DNA strands in case any Rebels were trying to get really creative and alter her DNA to pass her off as the young Tarkin.”

  “Altering DNA is possible?” Daala asked, her brow furrowing.

  Valkor allowed a slight smirk—her strongest sign of emotion thus far. “We can create a perfect clone from someone’s DNA, used to have a whole army of them. Of course, people learned how to cross the wires and alter it a bit. All humans are a 99% DNA match. If you know which wires to cross, you could certainly try to pass off a random girl as a Tarkin. Like I said, though, she’s authentic. A perfect match for the DNA profile we have on file.”

  Daala tilted her head skeptically. “You have a DNA profile for Leonia Tarkin specifically?”

  Dr. Horne adjusted his goggles, avoiding her gaze. “Grand Moff Tarkin mandated all Tarkin family members submit genetic records. Security systems grant them… priority access .” His voice faltered. “If she wakes, the droids may obey her , not you.”

  Daala’s eyes shot up. Is that so? she thought, her expression darkening. My mentor continues to find new ways to haunt me with his legacy . She scowled at Horne and then at the girl, still unconscious on the table. “How long until she wakes up?”

  “A girl her size, after two stun rounds? Hours,” Valkor replied, her voice carrying the slightest hint of being impressed but remaining flat and rigid. “One should have been more than enough. She must have quite some willpower to push through the first one.”

  “Very well,” Daala said, her tone clipped. “I need to override the computer systems and make sure they recognize me as the real commander of this facility. Notify me the second the girl wakes up.”

  “Actually, one last thing, Commander,” Valkor said, spinning around in her chair to face Daala. “You said before that the girl introduced herself as Moff Tarkin. She’s quite young. For her to be the Moff instead of a family elder, it certainly would imply her family tree has been trimmed heavily in the last few years. I might surmise that means big things are happening out in the galaxy beyond that gas shield. Care to share?”

  Daala tried to hide a grimace. The last thing I need is a morale crisis among the scientists when they learn the Empire is gone and the Rebels won. She lied smoothly, “Everything is fine. The girl must just be quite competent and accomplished.”

  “So the lockdown is over? I can go home soon?” Valkor pressed.

  Daala gritted her teeth, wishing Valkor would stop asking questions. “Of course, Doctor. You’ll be the first to know when we begin cycling out staff and crew.”

  Valkor tried to feign innocence with a shrug as her flat voice took on a forced apologetic tone. “I just know that you command the Eriadu Sector’s Third Reserve Fleet directly under Moff Tarkin… just feels like you'd be more suited to patrolling Eriadu, sitting with your engines off in dead space for 10 years”

  Daala didn't humor that response instead rolling her eyes. I’m suited to obeying the wishes of House Tarkin, of Seswenna sector, not Eriadu sector… was suited, now. If that girl on the table represents House Tarkin then perhaps I'm just the last true imperial loyalist, not a servant of House Tarkin. She turned and left before Valkor could ask more questions. The woman is too smart for her own good , Daala thought, her steps quickening. She’s asking questions and making observations I’d much prefer she didn’t.

  The medbay door hissed open. “Honor Guard, on me. Command center.” Valkor is as intelligent as she thinks she is, that's her problem, because she's only here for the paycheck and clearly wants to leave, makes her… an inconvenience that everyday grows closer to being a full security concern.

  Once again, the four stormtroopers formed a perfect square around her and stepped in perfect unison as they escorted her to the command center. Even knowing that not a single threat to my life exists within Revan Research Base, they’re still alert to every possible detail in the hallway, she thought with a flicker of pride. I’ve disciplined my Honor Guard well . Her steps clicked on the floors as they navigated the brightly lit hallways until they reached the command center. The door hissed open, revealing her highest ranking subordinates ready for her arrival around a large holographic table in the middle of the dark room Some command staff sat inside, attending to their duties, but everyone sprang up in a simultaneous salute.

  She didn’t waste time on theatrics or greetings. She pointed to an officer managing the main terminal. “You. I’ve heard that a certain Leonia Tarkin has full security clearance and command of facility services. Revoke both completely.”

  The technician looked confused for a moment but turned and started on the task. Next, she turned to Captain Mullinore. “Earlier this week, when that blockade runner pierced the gas shield and ran, you were dispatched to take care of it, yes?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Left it as a slag pile and some of the experimental Jammer Droids, in line with Doctor Murne’s request to field test them.”

  “Your orders were to make sure that the blockade runner could not be traced back here, correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You failed,” Daala said, her voice cold. “According to our interrogation with the prisoner earlier, you left behind a black box that the New Republic used to trace our location.”

  Captain Mullinore’s eyes flashed with uncertainty. He knows I don’t hesitate to use the firing squad as I see fit, Daala thought, her gaze piercing. And he knows I’m taking the appearance of both ships through the gas shield very seriously.

  “Y-yes, Admiral. It won’t happen again.” Mullinore said quickly, his voice trembling as he glanced around at the other officers that all averted their gazes to avoid eye contact with him. “Just give me the order.”

  Daala’s green eyes bore into his. I’ll let him correct his mistake, she decided. “From our interrogation and the second ship’s records, we’ve learned both ships are on the same plotting job. Both had additional black boxes reporting to Murrieta Base, a listening post—practically unguarded. Additionally, the second ship contacted Murrieta just before piercing the gas shield. This gravely jeopardizes the secrecy of this station. You’re going to help make sure our secrecy is kept. We need to stomp this problem out now. Murrieta is in the Anagnorisis system. We have hyperspace routes directly there and back that you can use once you’ve passed through the gas shield. Use a Carrack Cruiser. Board it, copy all data on board, take some odds and ends, and come back. Make it sloppy.”

  “Sloppy, ma’am?” Mullinore asked, confused.

  “We want the New Republic to think the base was hit by pirates, not disciplined and trained Imperial troops,” Daala explained, her voice low and dangerous. “We can’t afford to show our hand too early. If our interrogation is to be believed, they’re now the controlling interest in the galaxy and could dedicate entire fleets to combating us. Do it sloppy enough that they have no reason to believe it wasn’t pirates—and hence no reason to look further or dispatch additional ships to the sector.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She wasn’t ready to dismiss him quite yet. She continued holding his gaze. “And Captain, time is of the essence. Murrieta needs to go dark before it can transmit anything to any other New Republic facilities. We cannot give the New Republic any leads that might bring them to our door.”

  **********

  Blender awoke with a violent jolt, her vision swimming as two faint lights swirled and danced before merging into a single dim yellow glow. Her body felt impossibly heavy, sprawled across a hard, uneven surface that bit into her back. She attempted to sit up, but a sharp, lancing pain shot through her skull, forcing her back down with a groan.

  What the hell happened? she thought, gritting her teeth against the throbbing ache. Her last clear memory was standing in formation on the Star Destroyer's hangar deck, then a flash of blue light—a stun bolt. When she finally mustered the strength to push herself upright, her surroundings slowly came into focus. Iron bars surrounded her on three sides, primitive and crude—nothing like the energy fields or high-tech containment systems she'd expect from Imperials.

  The floor beneath her wasn't the polished durasteel of a Star Destroyer but rough, jagged stone, as if she were in some ancient dungeon rather than an Imperial facility. Through the bars, she could make out other cells lining the curved wall, all empty except for one directly adjacent to hers, which contained a motionless figure.

  To her right stood a high-tech monitoring station that clashed starkly with the otherwise primitive surroundings. At the desk sat a diminutive humanoid with amphibian features—bulbous eyes, greenish skin, and long, thin fingers that tapped rhythmically on a datapad. The incongruity was jarring—cutting-edge Imperial technology operated by what looked like a frog in a lab coat.

  "Where am I?" she demanded, her voice emerging as a hoarse rasp that scraped her dry throat.

  The frog-man jumped at the sound, his bulbous eyes widening as he rushed to the edge of her cell. As he approached, Blender was hit by a wave of body odor so potent she had to struggle not to gag. Not frog-like at all—distinctly human sweat, unwashed for what smelled like weeks.

  "Ahh, Experiment 7, you're awake!" he exclaimed, his voice vibrating with unnerving enthusiasm. "Welcome to your new home. It's not much, but it's... your new home." His lips stretched into a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

  Blender glanced around the cave-like chamber, taking in the primitive stone walls juxtaposed with sophisticated monitoring equipment. Experiment 7? It took her a moment to realize he was referring to her. "That's not my name," she snapped, pulling herself to her feet despite the pounding in her head. "I'm Blender."

  "No, you are Experiment 7," he replied, his tone eerily cheerful yet unyielding.

  "No, I'm Blender." She straightened to her full height, towering over the scientist.

  "No, you're Experiment 7." His smile never wavered.

  "Blender."

  "Experiment 7."

  Blender exhaled sharply, frustration mounting as she surveyed her cell more carefully. The bars were old but solid, the hinges well-maintained. Is this guy for real? She wasn't sure what infuriated her more—waking up on a cold stone floor, the relentless pounding in her skull, or the maddening way this creature was stripping her of her identity with that unwavering smile. Her last memory flashed vividly—being stunned aboard a Star Destroyer after narrowly escaping death in the nebula. No , she thought grimly, the worst part is the way this dipshit is smiling at me while pretending I'm not a person .

  "Alright, I'll bite," she said, her voice tightly controlled. "Why do you keep calling me Experiment 7?"

  "Because you're the seventh subject in my experiment," he replied, blinking his oversized eyes as if it were the most obvious thing in the galaxy.

  Blender's gaze swept the chamber again, her pilot's instincts cataloging details. The stone walls were too smooth to be natural, the ceiling too perfectly arched. And the silence—there was an unnatural quality to it, no echoes, no distant drips, none of the ambient sounds that should permeate a cave system. This isn't a natural cave , she realized. It's been manufactured to look primitive.

  "So where am I?" she asked again, watching his reaction carefully.

  "I already told you," the frog-man said, his grin widening impossibly further. "You're home."

  Blender felt her face flush with anger, her fists clenching at her sides. This guy is impossible . "Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "I'm Experiment 7. What's the experiment?"

  The frog-man's expression bloomed with delight, as if she'd just presented him with a rare gift. "Why, the experiment is mind control!" He practically bounced with excitement, his long fingers clasping together.

  Blende physically recoiled, a chill running down her spine despite the heat of her anger. Of all the places to wake up, I end up in some smelly lunatic's mind control lab. The frog-man seemed unfazed by her reaction, his unsettling grin never faltering as his bulbous eyes studied her with a disturbing mixture of scientific curiosity and perverse pride.

  She approached the bars, testing their strength with a few calculated taps. Solid, but old technology. Maybe there's a weakness somewhere . "So, can I come out?"

  "No," he said cheerfully, clasping his hands behind his back. "The Admiral would not like it."

  "The Admiral?" Blender repeated, her interest immediately piqued.

  "Yes." The single word hung in the air without elaboration.

  "Who's the Admiral?" she pressed, leaning against the bars.

  "She is the Admiral," he responded, his tone suggesting this was all the explanation needed.

  Blender exhaled sharply, her frustration threatening to boil over. This guy is useless . She turned away from the bars, hoping to end the maddening conversation before she gave in to the urge to reach through and throttle him. As she moved, her eyes landed on the figure in the neighboring cell—a human man with long, dark hair and an unkempt beard, slumped against the far wall. He appeared to be in his late thirties, his once-muscular frame now wasted and thin.

  Who's that? she wondered, studying the sleeping prisoner. He wasn't in a crew uniform from any vessel she recognized.

  The frog-man noticed her gaze. "That is Experiment 1," he said with a note of pride.

  Blender's stomach dropped, ice spreading through her veins. "Where are 2 through 6?" she asked, already dreading the answer.

  "They're dead, of course," he replied with the same casual inflection he might use to comment on the weather, his bulbous eyes blinking rapidly. "Unfortunate, but expected. The mind is such a delicate thing."

  Great. Just great. Five dead in some mysterious mind control experiment, and now I'm number seven . A cold calculation formed in her mind—she needed information, and this chattering lunatic was her only source. She turned back to face him, forcing her features into something less hostile. "Can you elaborate on that?"

  "No." The single word was delivered with the same unsettling cheer.

  Something in Blender snapped. Before she could check herself, her arm shot through the bars, fingers closing around his thin throat. "GET TALKING!!!" she roared, lifting him until his feet dangled above the ground.

  The frog-man let out a shrill "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" that echoed through the chamber. Almost immediately, a door hissed open somewhere out of view, and four stormtroopers rounded the corner, their blasters raised and aimed directly at her.

  Blender released the scientist instantly, raising her hands behind her head in surrender. Not worth dying over , she thought, though adrenaline still surged through her system, her heart hammering against her ribs.

  The hiss of the door confirmed her earlier suspicions—this wasn't a natural cave at all. The pristine white corridor visible beyond the stormtroopers stood in stark contrast to the primitive aesthetic of her cell. Combined with the frog-man's mention of "the Admiral," it all aligned with her last memory—the Koiyokan docking with the Imperial Star Destroyer Gorgon .

  This must be some kind of Imperial base , she reasoned as the stormtroopers closed in. But where? And why the theatrical cave setting?

  As the troopers surrounded her cell, blasters trained on her with unwavering precision, Blender's thoughts raced to her crewmates. She hadn't been alone when they docked with the Gorgon. Garrett had been there—she'd punched him, so he was probably around somewhere nursing a broken nose. Blitzer had been with her too, standing at her side as always. And then there were Leonia and Gazrael, likely inseparable even in captivity.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  But it was the thought of So-mi that sent a stab of anxiety through her chest. Where's So-mi? The question burned with greater urgency than any concern for her own safety. What did the Imperials do to her? And why separate us?

  The man in the next cell stirred slightly, his eyelids fluttering as if he might wake. Blender fixed her gaze on him, wondering if "Experiment 1" might have answers that the frog-man wouldn't provide. Whatever mind control experiments were happening in this place, she was determined not to become another casualty.

  She straightened her back as the stormtroopers took positions around her cell. I can survive whatever this is. And then I'll find So-mi .

  ************

  So-mi came to consciousness slowly, her head throbbing as her vision gradually sharpened into focus. She found herself in a large cage, but not alone. Around her were aged Wookiees, their matted fur glistening under harsh, strobing lights that cast long shadows across the metal floor. The air hung heavy with the stench of wet, decaying fur and bodily waste—a nauseating mixture that made her stomach turn.

  "All slaves, line up!"

  The command cut through the fetid air, sharp and authoritative. Before So-mi could locate its source, the Wookiees around her began to move, forming a single file line with practiced efficiency. One of them—a grizzled elder with patches of missing fur and scars visible beneath—reached down and grasped her arm gently but firmly.

  "AWWWOWUH," the Wookiee growled, the tone urgent but not unkind. So-mi didn't understand the words, but the meaning was unmistakable: Get in line.

  She complied, her mind racing as she assessed her surroundings. Guess I'm a slave now. How classically Imperial—racist, repulsive, and utterly predictable. The cage door screeched open on rusted hinges, and an Imperial officer stepped inside, his polished boots clicking against the metal floor in stark contrast to the filth surrounding him. His face was contorted into a permanent expression of disgust, no doubt from the overwhelming stench that permeated the holding pen.

  The officer moved down the line with clinical detachment, inspecting each Wookiee as one might examine livestock. Then his eyes landed on her, widening slightly with surprise.

  "Ah, so you're the new one," he said, his voice dripping with condescension as he looked her up and down. "The admiral did say you'd be smaller than a Wookiee... not as small as I'd hoped, but I'm certain you'll fit in tight spaces better than they would."

  His gaze traveled deliberately over her body, lingering in ways that made So-mi's skin crawl beneath her grease-stained mechanic's coveralls. The uniform had always been merely practical to her, but now she felt exposed under his predatory scrutiny—until his eyes reached her face. His expression shifted to one of distaste.

  "Such a fine figure... such a shame you're... blue."

  As he moved on to inspect Jerec, So-mi felt a bitter irony settle in her chest. Imperial racism might've just spared me from becoming a sex slave. Still, she crossed her arms tightly over her chest, shielding herself from the leering eyes of the other Imperials who followed in the officer's wake. She glanced down at her body, suddenly conscious of it in a way she'd never been before. Her figure had never helped her wire a ship or fix a hyperdrive—it had simply been the physical form she inhabited while doing what she loved. But now, for the first time, she saw herself through their eyes: a body to be assessed, desired, and used. She hated it.

  I'd rather look like one of these malnourished Wookiees if it meant I could be invisible to men like this.

  The officer reached the end of the line where Jerec stood, his hulking frame towering over even the tallest Wookiees. Jerec remained silent, his usual gentle demeanor replaced by a wary stillness as he avoided eye contact with the Imperials.

  "The new slaves need collars before they enter the work floor," the officer ordered, his voice echoing in the metal chamber.

  More Imperials entered the cage, their faces immediately contorting at the assault on their senses. Two approached So-mi, their eyes raking over her with the same predatory assessment as the officer. She tightened her arms around her chest, her jaw clenching as one pulled out a shock collar. She noticed all the Wookiees wore similar devices—black bands with blinking lights that encircled their necks like physical manifestations of Imperial control.

  The Imperial reached for her neck, his gloved hand brushing her skin with deliberate slowness. So-mi suppressed a shudder, her body instinctively recoiling, but he only smirked at her discomfort as he fastened the device. The collar felt cold and heavy, a constant pressure that reminded her of her new status. The Imperial's eyes lingered on her a moment too long, and she felt her stomach turn. The fear of what these men might do to her—what they might take from her when no one was watching—burrowed into her mind like a parasite.

  But So-mi wasn't one to cower. She drew herself up, thinking of Blender—tall, strong, uncompromising—and of the engineering bay on Pantora where she'd first learned how engines spoke their own language. She thought of the ships she'd fixed, the systems she'd salvaged when everyone else had given up. I'm the captain now , she reminded herself. I won't let them see me break.

  The Imperial turned to leave, and So-mi saw her opportunity. She lunged forward, slamming her forehead into his nose with a sickening crack that sent a jolt of satisfaction through her body. The satisfaction lasted only a fraction of a second before the shock collar activated, electricity tearing through her nerves like liquid fire. Every muscle in her body convulsed simultaneously, her skin burning from the inside out, but in that moment of agony, she found a strange clarity. They can control my body, but not my will.

  She hit the floor hard, her limbs twitching uncontrollably, but she forced herself to look up at the Imperial clutching his bloodied nose, his eyes wide with shock and rage.

  "You—" he spat, blood streaming between his fingers.

  "Waiting for your turn, ugly?" she snarled through gritted teeth, her voice trembling but defiant as she shifted her gaze to the second Imperial.

  The man's face contorted with anger as he grabbed her by the hair, yanking her cultural buns loose with painful force. Her pink hair cascaded around her face, briefly masking the smell of her burned flesh. He shoved her forward toward the cage exit, and she stumbled, her legs still unsteady from the shock. But she refused to fall.

  Instead, she straightened her back, her chin lifted high, her eyes blazing with undiminished fire as she took her first steps onto the work floor beyond the cage. The Imperials didn't follow, but she could feel their hostile stares boring into her back. Let them watch, she thought. Let them see what happens when they try to break me .

  **********

  Two stormtroopers held blasters to Garrett's back as they led him through pristine corridors back to his cell following his interrogation. His nose still throbbed where Blender had struck him, but he'd refused medical attention—partly out of pride, partly because he didn't trust Imperial medics not to "accidentally" make his condition worse.

  With the hiss of a door, the polished white halls of the facility gave way to an uneven, stony cavern devoid of ambient sound and lined with crude cells. This place feels like it was carved into an asteroid , Garrett thought, his eyes scanning the rough walls for any sign of surveillance equipment. Cheap and efficient—classic Imperial engineering when they're cutting corners.

  Despite his wrists already being bound by restraints, the stormtroopers kept their blasters pressed firmly against his spine. The precaution seemed excessive, but it also stroked his ego. Good. Let them think I'm dangerous. Maybe they'll slip up . Within moments, they rounded a corner in the cavern and arrived at the cell where he, Gazrael, and Blitzer had been held together—an archaic thing with physical bars instead of the energy fields used throughout the rest of the facility.

  One stormtrooper stepped forward to unlock the door while the second kept his blaster trained on Garrett's head. The moment the lock disengaged, he was shoved roughly inside, the door clanging shut behind him with a finality that echoed through the stone chamber. The stormtroopers retreated hastily, as if concerned the prisoners might try to rush the door during the brief time it was open.

  Their concern was unwarranted. Gazrael didn't even acknowledge what was happening, seemingly absorbed in adjusting something in his boot. Blitzer sat huddled against the far wall, nursing his bruises from his own interrogation. They had worked him over thoroughly—multiple contusions visible on his face and arms, a swollen eye, and the way he cradled his ribs suggested at least one fracture. He clearly needed medical attention that the Imperials had no intention of providing.

  The sound of muffled plasteel boots on stone followed by the distant hiss of a door marked the departure of the stormtroopers, leaving the three men alone in the cell. Gazrael finally turned his attention away from his boot to regard Garrett with undisguised contempt.

  "Was hoping you wouldn't come back," he said flatly.

  Garrett offered him a cold smirk. Always so dramatic . "The feeling was mutual when they took you for yours."

  Gazrael's gaze returned to his boot, his fingers working at something concealed within it. "Well, you don't seem too scuffed up, so I assume it went well."

  "What would they beat me over? I cooperated." Garrett kept his tone casual, as if imperial interrogation was a minor inconvenience rather than a potentially lethal experience.

  Blitzer looked up, scowling through his pain, still trying to massage some relief into his injured arm. "I fucking cooperated, and look what they did to me."

  Garrett waved his hand dismissively. "I'm sure you found a way to piss them off. They seem quite reasonable to me." At least, reasonable enough to recognize when someone might be useful to them.

  Gazrael didn't look up from whatever he was doing with his boot. "Oh, then reasonably ask them to let us go."

  "Us? Us?" Garrett's voice dripped with disdain. "No, you can rot here..." He turned to Blitzer, his tone shifting to one of mock curiosity. "How do you think So-mi compares to me as captain?"

  Blitzer winced as he shifted position, a fresh wave of pain evident in his expression. "She certainly got us locked in this mess quick, I guess."

  Garrett clapped his hands together, a smug grin spreading across his face. Perfect . "So he can come with me when I escape." He turned back to Gazrael, his voice hardening. "And you can put a blaster in your mouth and pull the trigger for all I care."

  Gazrael's fingers tightened around his boot strings, but he didn't look up. Is that the best he can come up with? "If they're so reasonable, then why do you want to escape?"

  "I still don't like being held prisoner, you dumbass." Garrett leaned against the bars, staring directly at Gazrael as if issuing a challenge. "Just like I don't like others playing with what's mine."

  Gazrael's eyes flashed dangerously, but he remained silent, returning his attention to his boot. Good. He knows better than to cross me. Garrett felt a flush of satisfaction, a sense that perhaps Gazrael wouldn't be an obstacle much longer. Perhaps soon, Leonia will be ripe for the taking again. The thought of her—beautiful, defiant, and utterly beyond his grasp—filled him with a twisted longing. A gem as beautiful as the full moon on a cloudless night, a treasure so fine that even my father would be impressed .

  Garrett pushed himself off the bars, his smugness radiating from every pore. "Now, seeing as I'm captain, it's only proper I get us talking about what really matters: our escape."

  Blitzer stopped massaging his arm and looked up with a grimace. "I wouldn't do that."

  Garrett turned to him, irritation flashing across his features. "Why?"

  Blitzer gestured weakly at their surroundings. "All the cells are empty except ours, meaning they didn't have to put us together. Jerec and the girls are gone, meaning they have alternative places to hold us. There's no reason they'd put us together where we could help each other escape unless the cell is bugged, and they're hoping to get intel from having us in here together."

  Garrett scanned the cell with narrowed eyes, trying to locate any surveillance devices hidden among the rough stone. "I don't see any listening devices."

  Gazrael let out a derisive snort. "Yeah... wouldn't be very good bugs if they were easy to spot and in plain sight." He finally looked up from his boot, his gaze sweeping methodically across the ceiling and walls. "Just relax and don't say anything out loud you don't want them hearing."

  Garrett's eyes locked on Gazrael again, bristling at the suggestion. How about you don't try telling me what to do? "I survive just fine on my own. All you've done is—"

  "Play with your toys? Yeah, you're a broken holocron, pal." Gazrael interrupted him dismissively, turning his attention to examining the wall. The stone was obviously carved, but something about the curvature suggested they weren't in a conventional facility. Some kind of asteroid base, maybe?

  "It's Captain, to you, you deadbeat." Garrett's voice took on a harder edge.

  Gazrael rolled his eyes. "And now we're doing the captain thing again, huh?" He rose to his feet, stretching muscles stiff from the hard floor.

  "Of course we're doing that again. I'm the legal owner of that ship."

  Owner of what's left of that ship, which probably isn't much . Gazrael looked through the bars to the many empty cells lining the curved wall. Maybe this is a prison with this much holding space, but why would an imperial prison be empty?

  His assessment was interrupted as Garrett continued needling him. "I must say though, no surprise that a deadbeat like you not only tries to play with my toys but chooses the broken one."

  Gazrael exhaled slowly, pushing down his rising anger. Would you shut the fuck up already and let me think? The question nagged at him: If this place isn't primarily a prison, then why does it have so many cells?

  Garrett waited, his irritation growing visibly as Gazrael refused to take the bait. "So do you have some pathetic need to feel like a hero that causes you to think you can fix her? Or are you just pathetic enough to settle for a psychotic brat?"

  Gazrael's fist clenched involuntarily at his side. "Which one are you? You're the one that won't shut up about not having her."

  Garrett paused, placing a finger to his chin in an exaggerated gesture of contemplation. "Ahhhh hmmm, lemme see... Now why would I want to fix her when whatever's wrong with her is clearly more fun?"

  Gazrael finally met his eyes directly, disgust evident in his gaze. "So you're the pathetic one that settles then?"

  Garrett's arrogant fa?ade cracked slightly. "I'm not settling, I'm... investing. She may seem like a damaged little cargo girl now, but she's a Tarkin, and all she needs is the right connections to pay dividends."

  "Wow... that is..." Gazrael's eyes widened as he shook his head in disbelief. "God, no wonder you have such a hard time getting laid."

  "It's good business sense." Garrett's tone was defensive.

  Gazrael shook his head again and turned to Blitzer. "In case it went over your head, he's referring to your sister as one of his toys. It's why she felt the need to break his nose when he was talking about his toys earlier."

  "He wouldn't call Blender a-..." Blitzer began, then paused as understanding dawned on his battered face. "She did take the toy comment personally... WAIT." His eyes widened with sudden fury as they locked onto Garrett. "WHAT THE FUCK? THAT'S MY FUCKING SISTER!"

  Gazrael opened his mouth to respond, hoping to fuel Blitzer's anger toward Garrett, but was interrupted by a faint hissing noise from the door around the corner.

  Blitzer heard it too, his rage momentarily displaced by wariness. His volume dropped, but his tone still carried the venom he'd been about to unleash. "Guess I was right. They're here to break us up since we called them on their bugged cell trick."

  The muffled sounds of stormtrooper armor approaching echoed through the stone chamber. Garrett turned to Gazrael, his expression smug despite the imminent interruption. Let's see how he handles this. "She does move herself quite beautifully, doesn't she?"

  The stormtroopers arrived before Gazrael could respond, which was a shame. Garrett was curious just how far he could push the man before he snapped. Next time , he promised himself. There's always next time .

  **********

  Words—a barrage of words, indistinct at first but slowly congealing into some discussion of DNA sampling—filtered through the haze as Leonia gradually slipped back into consciousness.

  "I don't see why the Admiral wants more DNA testing. We've already validated dozens of samples." It was a woman's voice, unfamiliar but with a flat, almost disinterested cadence.

  Leonia attempted to open her eyes only to be assaulted by blinding light that slowly retreated into a series of blurry, floating orbs as the ceiling gradually came into focus. Her body felt heavy, disconnected, as if it belonged to someone else.

  A man's voice answered the woman. "I just assumed the admiral is having you do it as punishment for being out of uniform."

  Leonia began trying to move, starting with her fingers, then her arms. Her movements were weak, but she could feel strength gradually returning to her limbs. The familiar sensation of restraints around her wrists confirmed what she'd already guessed—she was a prisoner, bound to some kind of medical table.

  The woman spoke again, her voice remaining devoid of inflection. "Yeah, well, I can't keep pulling blood from her all day for tests unless the Admiral is planning on killing her via excessive blood tests." Leonia tested the restraints, pulling against them experimentally. "The admiral said to inform her when the girl awakes, right?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, she's waking up and she's moving." Leonia immediately froze, trying to scan the room without revealing her alertness. Her vision remained blurry, but she could make out vague shapes—one definitely a person standing nearby. She heard the click of a comm unit activating and the man's voice again.

  "Admiral Daala, the—"

  Leonia didn't catch the rest. The mere mention of Daala's name sent a surge of rage coursing through her veins, her vision blurring with crimson as another fantasy overtook her conscious mind.

  The admiral was on her knees, her coppery red hair completely tangled and messy. Leonia held an empty syringe in her hand. She stabbed it into the admiral's throat repeatedly, each thrust rewarded with a satisfying scream as the metal penetrated flesh. Blood fountained from each puncture, coating Leonia's hands in warm, sticky crimson.

  She was pulled back to reality by the woman's voice. "Her face, it's... it's back to normal. Interesting."

  What do you mean it's back to normal? What's wrong with my face? Leonia tried opening her eyes again, and this time her vision cleared enough to make out her surroundings—a sterile medical bay with equipment lining the walls. She turned her head toward the source of the woman's voice and found herself looking at a striking figure seated nearby.

  The woman appeared to be in her mid-thirties, with raven-black hair arranged in elegant braids. She wore a flowing black dress that seemed out of place in the clinical setting, and her eyes were accentuated with dark makeup that made them look like portals into the void itself. She's... an artist like me. And she's beautiful. Leonia looked away despite her fascination. Maybe she's impressed by my art too.

  A series of rapid taps on a datapad followed as the woman worked, seemingly paying Leonia little attention until her eyebrows raised slightly. Her eyes briefly swept over Leonia before returning to her screen. The woman muttered, just loudly enough for Leonia to hear: "Suffers an undiagnosed mental health disorder affecting aggression and memory... believed to be passed to her matrilineally." She leaned back in her chair, her expression thoughtful.

  I do not have a mental health disorder... and neither did my mother . Indignation flared within Leonia, and she began straining against her restraints more forcefully. "Let me out of here or I'll fuc—"

  The woman leaned in, cutting her off. "Yes... very aggressive... Perhaps her medical history is correct after all."

  How dare she interrupt me ! Leonia forced herself to stop struggling. "Let me out," she demanded, pausing to emphasize the final word. "PLEASE."

  For a moment, the woman appeared to consider it, raising her hand as if reaching for the restraint controls. The motion revealed a network of scars along her forearm—electrical burns, Leonia guessed, subtle against the doctor's pale skin but unmistakable. The gesture was interrupted by the man's voice.

  "Absolutely not... not until you have calmed down."

  How about you go fuck yourself, Four-Eyes. Leonia directed a venomous scowl at him. "I am a MOFF. You have no right to keep me prisoner without trial."

  The man shrugged dismissively. "Dr. Valkor, 500 mg of aggression suppressors. I believe Natriniscone will suffice." He turned to Leonia with a smile so patently artificial it bordered on grotesque. "Why, of course, Moff Tarkin. You're no prisoner here. We're merely attending to your medical needs... after all, you and the admiral didn't get off on the right foot, and we here at Revan Research Base would like to make amends."

  The woman—Dr. Valkor—picked up an injector that was already loaded and primed. With a swift, practiced motion that belied her seemingly casual demeanor, she inserted the needle into Leonia's neck with surgical precision, finding the vein on the first attempt despite appearing to move almost carelessly.

  "Make amends by killing yours—" Leonia's retort died on her lips as the medication took effect. A sudden, unnatural calm washed over her—more profound than anything she'd experienced in years. Even Gazrael's presence or memories of her mother had never produced this artificial serenity. Her thoughts became sluggish, unfocused, as if moving through thick syrup.

  The artificial calm shattered almost immediately as anxiety gripped her, manifesting as a painful constriction in her throat and a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. The forced tranquility felt like a straightjacket around her mind, suffocating her natural responses. Her pulse raced—not with the familiar, invigorating rhythm of rage, but with a hollow, panicked drumbeat. Where are you? she screamed internally, clawing at the mental fog enveloping her. I need you! The void of her anxiety gaped back, terrifying in its silence.

  "How does that feel, Moff Tarkin? Are you in a more agreeable mood?" The man's voice dripped with condescension.

  Leonia glared at him, reclaiming at least this small act of defiance. I'm anxious now … She couldn't complete the thought, couldn't formulate the insult her mind reached for. She exhaled sharply, determined not to reveal her vulnerability. "I'm just peachy. I am completely high on life. I really love being brought into strange facilities, having my autonomy stripped, and my ability to defend myself restrained." Her voice perfectly mimicked aristocratic arrogance and confidence—a mask she'd perfected years ago under her mother's tutelage.

  "Ahhh, I see your sarcasm survived the drug... perhaps we could... no, no, that would be unethical." The man's voice trailed off as he reconsidered whatever he'd been about to suggest.

  Dr. Valkor finished cleaning the injector, her dark eyes flashing up to him. "Since when do you care about ethics, Dr. Horne?"

  Horne didn't look at her, waving his hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, bread and roses or whatever saying you have for me today. Spare me the moralizing."

  "Your dismissal doesn't change the ethics of experimenting on the Wookiee slaves. It's—" Valkor's reply was cut short as the MedBay door slid open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing Admiral Daala surrounded by four stormtroopers in precise formation.

  Leonia turned her gaze to Daala and found herself momentarily incapable of formulating any thoughts at all, the suppressors killing each one at the moment of conception. Finally, she managed to hold onto a single coherent question: What does that woman need an honor guard for?

  Daala dismissed the honor guard with a subtle hand gesture. Rather than leaving, they broke ranks and positioned themselves by the door, ever vigilant. The admiral approached the operating table where Leonia remained restrained, her posture rigid with military precision.

  "Release her," Daala commanded.

  Valkor lifted her hands, pressing a control on the side of the table. The restraints made a metallic clacking sound as they unwrapped from Leonia's wrists and retracted into the table. Leonia immediately sat up, swinging her legs over the side to face the admiral directly. "You wanted to speak to me?" She still looks so familiar... I swear we've met before .

  "Why yes, I understand we got off on the wrong foot—"

  "You mean how you shot my ship on sight and almost killed me," Leonia interjected. She knew she should be experiencing violent thoughts, visualizing graphic retribution, but the suppressors kept those impulses at bay, leaving only a dull awareness of their absence.

  "Yes... that." Daala's tone was almost nonchalant. "An issue of security, I assure you. Allow me to make it up to you by hosting a banquet to honor such a young Moff."

  Leonia rubbed her wrists, massaging away the marks left by the restraints while deliberately delaying her answer to build tension—a small theatrical flourish she could still manage despite the medication. "My fiancé will be joining us, correct?"

  Daala's eyebrows rose slightly. I suppose Tarkins do tend to marry young, but no one else on that ship seemed... notable . "Of course... he was aboard your vessel?"

  Leonia looked up with thinly veiled contempt. Obviously he was. How dumb are you? "Yes, the security officer."

  "I'm afraid I'd need the name. We don't know the position of all your st—" Daala was interrupted as one of the stormtroopers stepped forward from the formation by the door. "Yes, Commander Fredja?"

  "Actually, the prisoner Gazrael Anata is the security officer. He didn't say so in his interrogation, but he was the only one carrying a blaster when they came aboard."

  Daala's eyes flashed briefly at the stormtrooper before returning to Leonia. Say less, Fredja . She calculated quickly: Letting a prisoner free and allowing him facility access poses a security threat, but that may be a necessary concession for the girl's cooperation .

  Leonia's attention shifted to the stormtrooper, her brain latching onto a single word. Interrogation? They dare harm my love? For the briefest moment, she felt her fist begin to clench, a flicker of her usual response breaking through the chemical restraint. Are the drugs wearing off, or am I overpowering them?

  "Very well. Bring this Gazrael Anata here at once." The door hissed as a stormtrooper departed to carry out the order. Daala noticed the subtle movement in Leonia's hand—an aborted attempt to ball her fist. She's protective of him... interesting.

  Leonia relaxed slightly on the operating table, though her eyes remained alert despite the medication. "I trust that you will give him the same level of medical treatment as you give me?"

  "Of course," Daala replied, her voice deliberately reassuring. "We know that your fiancé must be an important asset."

  Leonia's eyes shot up from her wrists to Daala's face. Asset? Why would he be a— Then the implication dawned on her. Arranged marriages... She thinks he was selected for me for political purposes. "Yes, a most important asset." She returned her gaze to her wrists, her fingers twitching as she felt the suppressors' grip loosening. The artificial calm felt increasingly suffocating, like being trapped in a cage. But now, the fire is returning. Good. I need it.

  "So I trust you and your fiancé will be joining the dinner?" Daala's tone was cordial, but her eyes remained calculating.

  Leonia continued rubbing her wrists, her gaze downcast. This dinner seems important to her... but she hasn't asked me any questions yet. Why? "Yes, of course, I would love to, although I don't exactly have anything presentable for such an occasion. Perhaps you could lend me a dress so that I can attend."

  Daala's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Your reservation is about attire? "I assure you, we will have a loose dress code. You need not worry."

  Leonia folded her arms across her chest and fixed Daala with a defiant stare. "No, I need a dress... an elegant black dress."

  Daala's gaze flickered between Valkor and Leonia for a moment before she shook her head slightly. No, nothing Valkor wears would fit her. Finding a suitably sized dress for her here will be... challenging . "I'll see what I can provide."

  "See that you do." Leonia's tone carried an unmistakable note of command despite her vulnerable position.

  Daala gritted her teeth, maintaining her composed exterior while her thoughts turned acidic. The second I get the information I need from her, I'm jettisoning her out the airlock.

  The hiss of the med bay door opening drew their attention. Leonia launched herself off the table, darting past Daala with unexpected speed, arms outstretched. "MY LOVE!"

  Daala watched the girl rush by, momentarily surprised by her enthusiasm. She seems excited to— The realization hit her mid-thought. It's not an arranged marriage... of course. The interrogations said the Empire fell six years ago. She must genuinely care for him . She assessed Gazrael with a critical eye as he entered, flanked by stormtroopers. A girl as attractive as that could certainly do better than him, but he may be even more useful in securing her cooperation than I anticipated.

  Near the MedBay entrance, Gazrael audibly gasped as Leonia collided with him, her arms wrapping around him with fierce possessiveness. Within seconds of embracing him, she began examining him for injuries, her hands moving with practiced efficiency over his body until she found what she was looking for—a dark purple bruise marring his upper arm. Her grip tightened as she glared at the nearest stormtrooper, her eyes darkening despite the medication. I'll kill every last one of them. How dare they harm my Gazrael... The drugs must be wearing off already.

  Gazrael enfolded her in his arms, his voice a soothing murmur. "I got you. Don't worry about me." He could see her eyes narrow as they fixed on the bruise, the violet depths clouding with familiar dangerous intent. Better it happens to me than to you. His arms tightened around her protectively, holding her a fraction too long. For a heartbeat, his carefully maintained composure slipped, revealing raw relief that she was alive mingled with dread of what she might do next.

  From her position by the monitoring station, Dr. Valkor's eyes darted to the medical panel, her left eyebrow rising slightly as she registered the data. The girl's system was metabolizing the Natriniscone at a remarkable rate—far faster than should be possible. Fascinating . She recalled how Leonia had recovered from two stun bolts hours earlier than expected. Her resilience is almost inhuman.

  For a moment, Valkor considered reporting her findings to Daala, informing her that the girl's medication was already wearing off and that she might soon become dangerous. And yet... Would it really be so bad if the girl tried assassinating the admiral? With a subtle gesture, she swiped the data from the panel screen. I'll be keeping this information private for now.

  As she watched the reunion, Valkor's thoughts drifted to her own plans. The appearance of these newcomers—especially one with Tarkin blood—had created ripples of opportunity in the stagnant pond of Revan Research Base. Perhaps , she mused, allowing herself a rare flicker of hope, my path to freedom just became clearer.