++OLD DIARCHY SPACE ++
The bridge of the
Paragon was in a strange state of quiet that wasn’t quite right to those on the command deck. It wasn’t calm, nor was it the controlled and disciplined silence that only Imperial command decks ever truly were. No, it was something far more baseline in the hearts of the crew who went about their tasks. It was caution; a caution laced with fear.
The stars stretched endlessly ahead, unbroken save for the faint holographic lattice of projected routes that drifted across the viewport, flickering in and out of coherence as blue lines struggled to resolve amidst an otherwise clear projection.
Diocletian Mecetti stood beside the command dais, hands folded neatly behind his back, his gaze fixed not on any single path but the space between them. His presence was welcomed by the bridge, it meant they were on the right path. Yet he couldn’t take his attention away from where the maps showed structure had once existed, and now it simply did not.
“Former Diarchy space continues to degrade,” A silkened voiced officer reported, his tone measured and carried easily across the bridge from where he was standing without force.
“Beacon chains are failing faster than anticipated. Some have been destroyed outright. Others…appear to have simply been abandoned. We should stop using them to relay, in case they are being watched.”
With a subtle gesture, the display shifted. What had once been a clean network of navigational certainty now bled into fractured territories, colours indicating overlapping claims, splinter states, the early shape of conflict that had not yet decided what it wished to become and amidst it all were the rough known estimates of the Initiative’s forces, or what remained of the ones still claiming loyalty. Dio almost had to hide the frustration at the lack of it all.
“Competing authorities are beginning to establish control,” the officer continued.
“None of them are stable and none of them are coordinated. They’re securing what they can, where they can. Portions of our fleet included.”
Diocletian watched it in silence for a moment longer, then inclined his head slightly.
“They will begin engaging anything that crosses those lines,” he said, not as a question but as an inevitability already set in motion.
“I wouldn’t consider these elements our fleet anymore.”
“They already have,” the officer replied, his hand indicating to several areas to the south where the Initiative had last been able to issue any solid commands.
“But without cohesion? It’s reactive. It’s disorganised.” He held a hand to his chin running his fingers across it, before he added, more carefully,
“It is dangerous, but it also presents an opportunity. We can move through it; if we avoid anything resembling any form of route pattern.”
Diocletian’s expression did not shift, though his attention sharpened almost imperceptibly.
“Pattern is what they will learn to look for,” he said quietly.
“The moment this stabilises, even slightly we will be hunted down.”
The officer gave a small nod.
“Then we move before it does.” He seemed to hesitate slightly before turning to face the symbolic red armour of the Imperial Knight.
“There is also this…”
A new symbol cut softly across the holodisplay, it was flagged as a priority and the officer brought it forward without ceremony. The emblem resolved first, stark and deliberate in its design, followed by the accompanying declaration.
“It’s been checked, the message is legitimate. The First Order. Naming itself, without any hesitation I must add, as the Imperial inheritor.” The officer flicked his hand and the message played in full before either of them would speak again.
Diocletian stepped closer to the display, his gaze steady as he read through the rhetoric, the certainty, the careful construction of legitimacy asserted rather than earned. When it ended, the projection dimmed, leaving only the fractured map behind it.
“They have chosen their moment,” the Imperial observed.
“There is no unified opposition. The galaxy holds no Imperial authority strong enough to contest the claim directly.”
“No immediate one,” Diocletian corrected, his tone even, almost absent of emphasis.
“Not that they are aware of yet.” He let the silence settle for a fraction longer, then shifted his attention back to the map.
“To declare inheritance is dangerous.” he continued.
“And it will fester a need to cull anything that poses a challenge to them whether they are prepared for it or not.”
The officer considered that, then asked,
“Do you expect them to come looking for us?”
“I expect them to come looking for anything or anyone that can undermine the simplicity of their claim,” Diocletian replied.
“We qualify.”
There was no weight placed on the statement. It did not need it.
The other Imperial exhaled slowly, then gestured toward the shifting routes.
“Then we avoid both problems at once. We stay clear of their lines of sight, and we move through the instability before it resolves into something more…organised. Have we decided on a potential safe haven?”
Diocletian stepped forward slightly, lifting a hand to indicate a narrow corridor threading between two contested regions. The small gap was barely a route at all, more a slight absence of colour than a structured pass.
“We cannot avoid instability,” he said, his voice low, controlled.
“So we will have to use it.” His gaze remained fixed on the projection as he spoke.
“Conflict narrows perception. Each of these factions will be watching for threats they understand; fleet movements, supply lines, territorial incursions. We are right now none of those things.”
He gave a small shift of his hand, his finger tracing the broken path forward.
“We move without pattern. Short jumps. No more reliance on their infrastructure. No signal for them to interpret.”
The officer followed the route, already calculating the demands it would place on navigation, on timing, on the crew.
“And if one of them decides to engage regardless?”
Diocletian lowered his hand, returning it behind his back as his posture settled once more into stillness.
“Then they will be committing resources they cannot afford to waste,” he said, his eyes staring into the map with a quiet determination.
“They will not understand what they are engaging.”
The bridge fell quiet again, save for the low hum of the ship and the distant flicker of failing routes.
After a moment, the officer spoke once more.
“And if the First Order comes looking for us?”
This time, Diocletian did not answer immediately.
His gaze lifted from the map to the stars beyond it, those vast, indifferent stars, unchanged by claims of inheritance or the collapse of all the empires that came before them.
When he did finally speak, his voice was quieter, but no less certain.
“Then we will discover whether they have inherited the Empire…” A slight narrowing of his eyes.
“…or are simply pretending.”
