Star Wars The Deceiver (SW SI)

POV: Captain Gilad Pellaeon

Location: Aboard Imperial Class Star Destroyer 'Chimaera', En route to Bastion

Time: A little while after the Civil War on the Imperial Centre

The tunnel of hyperspace shimmered beyond the bridge of the Star Destroyer. Crew scuttled about their duties while Captain Gilad Pellaeon stood motionless, hands clasped behind his back, boots planted firm on the command deck. 

They were a few weeks past Bilbringi now. After days of security checks, they'd been granted permission to continue toward Bastion via a recently reopened hyperspace lane. The Chimaera now had two Imperial II-class Star Destroyers as escorts, which made perfect sense, and yet, it still put the crew on edge. 

Pellaeon exhaled through his nose. The near-silence of hyperspace did little to calm his thoughts. Nothing did, not anymore. Not since Endor.

Not since the Executor crashed into the Death Star, taking with it thousands of the Empire's finest. Not since the Death Star itself erupted, vaporising hundreds of thousands more — the Emperor, Lord Vader, Declann, and command systems all gone in an instant. The fleet had fallen into chaos. Communications severed. Orders lost. Signals broken.

The Rebels surged forward. Even the return of Grand Admiral Osvald Teshik couldn't stop the unravelling. His Star Destroyer had been reportedly destroyed during the final hours of battle, and with command compromised, the Chimaera was designated as the fallback coordination ship. It had fallen to Pellaeon to relay the order to retreat.

He still hated himself for it.

Two days of hyperspace, isolated and spiralling, replaying every moment of failure. He had argued for a return to Endor — to regroup, strike, and crush the damaged Rebel fleet before the wider galaxy learned the Emperor and Vader were dead.

But the fools…

Harrsk, arrogant as ever, passed command to that dithering idiot Prittick. By the time a decision was made, Harrsk had already broken off with the remnants of Death Squadron, heading toward the Elrood Sector.

Prittick judged the remaining fleet insufficient for a counterattack and fled.

Just like that.

Pellaeon was drawn from his thoughts by a voice: "Captain, we are approaching Bastion. T-minus thirty seconds." Pellaeon responded instantly, decades of experience rising to the surface. "Hold formation. Alert our escorts. Any deviation from this route, we respond in kind." He didn't expect treachery—not here, at least. But these were still the early days. No formal command structure. No oaths had been sworn. 

Pallaeon glanced in the direction of the sealed containers, the sigil of Empire proudly engraved across the pitch black durasteel frame. He hadn't the slightest clue about what was inside, but he had a gut feeling that it would change everything.

From the viewport, the stars stretched and then snapped.

They had arrived. 

The Chimaera emerged just above the gravity well of Bastion's outer moon, its escorts holding tight formation. And there it was — stretched across the orbitals and planetary defences — an Imperial fleet, a real fleet, dozens of Star Destroyers. Even Acclamators and Venators. Interdiction platforms. A reorganised Golan defence ring. Pellaeon hadn't seen anything of this scale since the Clone Wars. Uniform patrol routes and signal traffic locked in rhythm.

It was beautiful.

For the first time since Endor, Pellaeon felt something close to pride. This wasn't a scavenged remnant or a desperate stronghold — this was true order. The Lord Inquisitor had rebuilt the Empire while the rest of the galaxy had fallen into factional squabbling.

A comm burst crackled through the bridge. "Unidentified Star Destroyer, identify yourself," Pellaeon responded without pause. "This is the Star Destroyer Chimaera. Designation Alpha-Zero-Three. Clearance codes transmitting now." 

Silence. 

Then: "Chimaera, you are clear for descent. Bastion Control will assume your approach." 

----------------------------------------------------------------

The hiss of the Theta-class shuttle's doors faded into the background as Pellaeon stepped onto the durasteel platform, boots scraping against frost-covered plating. Bastion's air was cold — not the cold of weather, but the kind that crept into the bones. This was a fortress world. Practical. Unwelcoming to all.

The ISB and COMPNOR aides followed behind, wheeling the sealed black crates down the angled ramp. A pair of Death Troopers waited at the edge of the landing zone — black armour polished to a mirror sheen, rifles held not quite at ease.

They didn't speak. They simply turned, gesturing toward the ramp that descended into the Citadel proper.

The ramp into the Citadel dipped sharply downward, taking them through layers of reinforced durasteel and sensor-gated blast doors. Pellaeon followed the silent escort team deeper underground, boots echoing in measured rhythm. The walls were black alloy, bare and unadorned. No statues. No banners. No fanfare. 

This wasn't Coruscant. There was no theatre here. 

Each checkpoint was a silent, cold, efficient — retinal scans, identity confirms, layered biometric verification. The further they descended, the more it became clear: this was not the shattered Empire of recent weeks. This was something new. 

They finally stopped at a tall, sealed doorway marked only with a recessed Imperial crest — black-on-black. One of the Death Troopers pressed a palm to the reader. The door opened without sound. 

The chamber beyond was a sharp contrast — wide, high, circular, with jagged rib-like arches overhead and a polished floor of dark obsidian tile. The back wall was dominated by a massive reinforced viewport, casting dim, pale light across the dais. 

And on that dais sat a throne — matte black, angular, and elevated by six stark steps.

Upon it, motionless, was the First Brother; on his sides, two of the Emperor's Royal Guard stood.

His figure was draped in black armour and robes, red light catching along the sculpted ridges of his helmet. His face was hidden entirely beneath the T-shaped visor, lit faintly from within. One gloved hand rested on the throne's armrest. The other gripped nothing — but it might as well have. 

A cold wave of air coiled around him, it felt like a Tuk'ata watching him.

Pellaeon stepped forward, his boots echoing. He dropped to one knee before him as the COMPNOR and ISB agents dropped to their knees as well.

"I pledge myself and my crew to you, my Lord," he said evenly.

The Death Troopers wheeled the sealed crates forward, in pure silence and one by one began unlocking them, revealing a book, thick bound in red leather. No readable title, its cover marked in an unknown tongue.

The First Brother stood.

"Rise, Captain. I welcome you back into the Empire." His modulated voice rolled across the chamber smooth, deep and cold but unmistakably powerful. 

​

He descended the steps slowly and deliberate. His boots made no sound on the duracrete.

He stopped a few feet away from the book and grabbed it.

Then rested a gloved hand on its surface gently.

The lights in the chamber dimmed — or maybe it only felt that way.

He didn't speak again.

He didn't need to.

-------------------------------------------------------------------POV: Omniscient Broadcast Relay / Civilian Feed Composite

Setting: Bastion Citadel Plaza, 0900 Standard Time

Cameras tracked across the skyline as Bastion's sun crested the horizon, casting the peaks of the fortress-world in blood-orange light. The air was sharp, cold, and dry — perfect for clarity. From orbit, the city looked like a monument — tiered walls, symmetrical towers, precise highways. Everything was built with intent. Nothing wasted.

In the plaza below, the crowd had gathered in silence.

Civilians, officers, and workers stood flanked by white-armoured stormtroopers in parade formation. Death Troopers manned the rooftops. TIE fighters screamed across the sky in flawless formations, trailing crimson vapour. Banners of the New Order hung from every tower face.

The camera panned downward.

A broad ceremonial platform jutted out from the Imperial Citadel, its polished durasteel reflecting the cold morning light.

It was empty.

Then came the procession. Planetary governors and military attachés — each watching, silent and alert — descending from their transports to present themselves before the gathered crowd. They offered brief words of allegiance, bowed, and stepped aside.

From above, the shadow of the Super Star Destroyer Reaper passed.

The Lambda-class shuttle broke atmosphere in formation with four TIE Interceptors, engines pulsing blue. It descended over the assembled legions, circled once, then aligned for the central landing pad. The moment it touched down, the signal horns blared.

The ramp extended.

Out walked Grand Moff Ardus Kaine and his assortment of aides from the Corporate Sector Authority and naval staff, all in formal attire. His boots struck the platform with commanding weight. He said nothing as he approached the podium.

He knelt.

"Under my authority as Grand Moff of the Oversector Outer, and the loyal economic houses under my stewardship, I pledge loyalty to my Emperor and to the continuity of Imperial Order."

A slow beat began — low, metallic steps echoed like drums. One per beat.

Above the citadel gates, a wide balcony opened. He stepped forward.

"Grand Moff Ardus Kaine — your loyalty is heard. Your words are acknowledged. Your oath is accepted."

A breath passed. Then he continued.

"Loyal citizens of the Empire, on this day, we mark a new age."

"The galaxy has watched us fracture after the death of our late Emperor, Sheev Palpatine. We have been betrayed from within, besieged from all sides — by cowards, by traitors, by self-proclaimed warlords… and by the so-called Alliance to Restore the Republic."

He paused, eyes narrowing — a single word followed.

"Rebels."

A murmur stirred at the edge of the plaza — hushed, uncertain.

"From the ashes of Endor, they believe the Empire is broken."

"They are wrong."

"These Rebels wish to restore the Old Republic. They claim to fight for freedom — but their war has brought only destruction to our great Empire."

"We have seen this before. The Old Republic crumbled beneath the weight of corruption, division, and complacency. Its final years brought nothing but chaos, war on a galactic scale, a broken Senate — all in the name of democracy."

"And now this 'New Republic' follows the same path. Led by the Jedi. The same weakness. The same lies."

"Once again, they promise freedom. Once again, they deliver only ruin."

"And in our moment of crisis, they came — Gundarks in Imperial clothing. Wearing ranks, but loyal only to ambition."

He raised his arms.

"Under this New Order, our beliefs will be protected. Our loyalty will be rewarded. Our strength will be sharpened."

"We will defend our Empire not with sentiment, but with force. We will give no ground to our enemies — not from within, not from without."

His hand swept toward the crowd, toward the broadcast lenses that streamed his image to systems across the stars.

"Let the traitors hear this now — warlords, rebels, thieves who wear the colours of our Empire."

"You will be hunted down and defeated."

The wind caught the ends of his cloak, snapping it like a war hammer.

"The task ahead will be difficult — but the people of the Empire do not shy from this burden."

"Through our sacrifice, we trade chaos for clarity. War for peace. Anarchy for stability."

"And soon… a secure future will stretch from the Inner Core to the edge of the Unknown Regions."

He let the moment build.

"Each of you has a role.

Each of you must do your part. Join the Imperial Navy. Travel to the corners of known space to bring order and stability to the galaxy. Those who wish to fight — join the Imperial Stormtrooper Corps. Build monuments and technological wonders. You are the lifeblood of this Empire."

He raised his hand slightly — a quiet, commanding gesture.

"We will need your eyes. Watch for sedition. For deceit. For treachery."

"We will need your voices. Speak the truth of the Empire — in every corridor, every square, every forgotten world."

"We will need your hands. Build. Expand. Restore what was broken. Create what is only dreamt of."

He turned toward the banners overhead — red and black, stitched with the crest of the Empire. They rippled like fire against the morning sky, towering from the Citadel spires. A murmur ran through the crowd — awe, or fear, or both — as if the banners themselves had declared dominion over the plaza below.

"The Empire has been tested. Only through me, will the galaxy know order — not through votes, but through command."

His voice deepened — cold, vast, absolute.

"This is not the end of the Empire."

He let the words linger — a breath, a pause, heavy with intent.

"It is just the beginning."

"The reclamation begins now. We will not stop. Not at Endor. Not at Chandrila. Not at Kuat. We will burn this corruption from every system."

He let the silence build until the plaza held its breath.

Then:

"From the scattered remnants of the old Empire…"

A breath — slow, steady.

"...a new order rises."

​

He stepped forward, the banners of the New Order towering above him.

"Today, we will reorganise and be reborn…"

"...as the New Galactic Empire."

His voice carried now, not loud, but total.

"I will lead this Empire to glories beyond imagining."

A moment passed. The wind stilled.

"We have been tested…"

"...and we have emerged stronger than ever before!"

He raised one hand, palm open, fingers splayed in solemn vow.

"Now, we move forward as one people…"

"...Imperial citizens of the New Galactic Empire."

His fist closed.

"We will prevail."

He held the crowd in silence — and then, with finality:

"Ten thousand years of peace…"

"...begins now."

The crowd erupted.

Cheers rose like a wave — coordinated, furious, absolute.

"Long live the Empire!" someone shouted.

More followed.

"Long live the Emperor!"

"Long live the New Galactic Empire!"

The plaza became thunder—boots striking the pavement, stormtroopers raising rifles in perfect salute. Tie fighters screamed overhead in a wave formation. The banners flared in the wind.

And above it all, the New Emperor stood — silent, unmoving, final.

From the clouds, the Reaper drifted into view, flanked by a wall of Imperial Star Destroyers.

A/N

What do you think? Comment below. Oh, and Happy 4th of July to my American Readers.